


Live in My Heart and Pay No Rent

by SomeoneToCarryYou



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Courting Rituals, Curses, Emotionally constipated Geralt, F/F, F/M, Father figure Vesemir, Fluff, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Geralt Yennefer Friendship, Geralt needs to learn to use his words, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Jaskier Gets Shrunk, Jaskier and Geralt are Adoptive Dads, Jaskier is a feral bard, Jealous Geralt, Jealous Jaskier, Lambert is an ass, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Monster - Freeform, No beta we die like stregobor should have, Possesive Geralt, Protective Witchers, Some angst, Tiny Jaskier, Triss is a queen, Well meaning ghosts, Witcher School Pack, Wolf Pack, Yennefer is an adoptive mom, cursing, injured jaskier, oblivious Geralt, protective Geralt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeoneToCarryYou/pseuds/SomeoneToCarryYou
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier encounter an unfamiliar creature who decides to help Geralt learn an important lesson. Why this results in Jaskier getting shrunk until he is only six inches tall, no one seems to have any idea. Can Geralt, along with his brothers-in-arms, Child Surprise, and two powerful sorceress friends fix it? Gods only know, but it'll be funny and tragic along the way to finding out.Note: Title is a reference to the quote: "Come live in my heart, and pay no rent." - Samuel Lover
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Original Female Character/ Original Female character
Comments: 74
Kudos: 279





	1. A Prolific Amount of Bad Signs

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. This is my first attempt at a Witcher fic, and one of my very first attempts at a multi chapter fic. The first couple chaptersmight be a bit exposition-y but I promise it'll get more fast paced and funny as we go along. If you have any particular ideas for adventures or situations for poor mini Jaskier to get into, I'd love to hear it and work it in if I can. 
> 
> Much love, and stay safe.

Fucking. Sorcerers. 

Nearly a century of wandering the continent, slaying monsters, wielding weapons, traversing vast terrains (particularly with the vitriolic response a Witcher gets in most villages and thus the need to sleep outdoors) and other ‘learning experiences’ as a certain absent bard would describe it, and somehow he always ended up getting involved in sorcerer nonsense and paying the price. 

Well, perhaps ‘absent bard’ wasn’t exactly accurate. Minimized unconscious bard, that was more fitting, mused the small part of Geralt’s brain that had remained calm and detached from the panic flooding his nervous system with adrenaline as the witcher pushed Roach hard along uneven dirt roads. An odd side effect of his third wish to the djinn had been a constant vague knowledge of Yennefer’s general location at any given time. He focused on the thread of feeling drawing him closer to the sorceress that he so routinely ignored for both their sakes.

It had seemed like a simple enough job, that sliver of cold logic tried to justify to the rest of his screaming brain that was caught in a litany of Fix it. Protect Jaskier. Fix it now. Fix it now. Protect. Protect. Protect. They’d arrived in a reasonably large village called Vern somewhere in Temeria, unremarkable except for the promise of a decent reward to clean out an old abandoned tower in the nearby woods. Locals suspected some kind of wraith had taken up residence in the crumbling stone structure and offered fair pay to prevent any more strangeness in that particular part of the woods. What exactly qualified as ‘strangeness’ hadn’t exactly been specified but the general term itself did fall under the category of Witcher business. 

Jaskier had been prattling on about some trip he’d have to take soon back to Oxenfurt. And it had definitely not bothered Geralt at all to know the bard planned to depart soon. No. Didn’t matter to the witcher in the slightest. 

Hmm. 

So Geralt hadn’t been paying nearly enough attention to Jaskier until he realized they were a mile into the darkened eerie woods and he hadn’t persuaded ( “Threaten, Geralt. You usually threaten me into staying” Jaskier had quipped) the bard to remain at the inn where he was due to play tonight. Well it was too late to send him back now. The colorful idiot would likely trip and fall into a ravine, break his leg tripping over a root, or duel and be defeated by a particularly aggressive squirrel if Jaskier was sent back alone. And besides, it was a wraith, not a wyvern. How bad could it be?

Famous. Last. Words. 

“I don’t like this at all Geralt. It’s far too quiet here, can’t hear a single bird or anything. And why is it so foggy? Why are creepy abandoned places always foggy? Surely the local weather patterns are not catering to setting the atmosphere for scary things. And who the bloody hell builds a watch tower for a tiny village in the middle of the godsdamned woods anyway!?!” The words were dramatic, but fairly accurate. Even with his advanced hearing, Geralt heard absolutely no wildlife around them for miles, certainly a bad sign. And ignoring the bemoaning of the damp weather, it was a good point that there really was no need for a watch tower for a medium sized rural farming village, particularly one so far from the village itself. Too far to have been useful. 

That should have been the first clue everything was going to go tits up, but a job was a job and he had pressed on without being overly worried. Soon enough they found the tower, largely intact but clearly very old. Geralt’s medallion hummed against his skin where it lay tucked into his shirt. “Remind me, did anyone say what kind of ‘strangeness’ was happening?” Jaskier whispered, eyes wide at the poetic and tragic scene before him. Fuel for at least two nice ballads. 

“Not really. People being drawn to it, being gone for a bit, then coming back acting different or with sudden streaks of good or bad luck,” the witcher murmured as he drew his silver sword. “Stay behind me and do not touch anything, bard.” Without another word, Geralt pushed the heavy oak door inward and listened for any signs of movement. When none came, he paused to take his Cat potion for the pervasive darkness waiting inside, and moved inward. Broken bottles and glass shards littered the stone floors. Some of the half rotted wooden shelves remained on the walls, full of curiosities and heavy texts bound in leather. “I said, do not touch,” Geralt growled, not even needing to turn around to know the bard was about to nick something shiny. A disappointed huff greeted his reminder, proving his suspicions correct. The bard was worse than a magpie when it came to shiny interesting things. 

Slowly and carefully Geralt made his way to the winding stair case. As he put a leather boot on the first step, the damp torch on the wall above his head flickered and lit. “Now that, that is not good,” hissed the bard. The pattern held as they went up the stairs, torches sparking as they passed and lighting the way to the second floor. It burned Geralt’s blackened eyes, truth be told, but he refused to give into the watering. As they came to the landing, Jaskier nervously humming behind him as the tension grew thick in the air, a slow soft song filled the air.

“Shut it, bard!” Geralt snarled, even as Jaskier gripped the back of Geralt’s shirt. ‘Geralt, dear, sweet Geralt. That isn’t me singing,” he bard snapped, fear making his voice high. Second clue that this was not the run of the mill wraith. But, keep calm and carry on. Geralt pushed the thick brocade curtain hanging lopsided in the doorway out of the way, ignoring how the dust made his nose twitch as he made his way inside. And then stopped dead in his tracks. Jaskier walked right into him, sneezing loudly and whining about why had Geralt just stopped in the- oh. Oh boy. 

The rounded room had a dusty old bed, with what had once been fine wooden furnishings and expensive heavy emerald green fabrics, a shattered looking glass still half on the wall, wet burned down candles strewn about the floor. A narrow window let in a bit of gray light, with a few polished little dark wood boxes on the window sill. And sitting in the middle of the room was a specter rocking back and forth in an old rocking chair as she sewed some sort of gown. Unlike a wraith, the specter was glowing and almost entirely translucent. She, for it was a lovely looking young woman, was clearly of some sort of noble birth. Long hair fell about her waist with tiny intricate braids woven amongst the silky strands, and bits of jewelry and hair cuffs adding slightly brighter spots. She couldn’t have been older than 19, likely much younger, with a sweet face and large doe eyes. The clothes she wore looked very fine with little embellishments decorating the fabric which moved about like water as she rocked and worked. 

“Hello Geralt of Rivia,” a soft musical voice called out, though the specter didn’t lift her eyes from whatever she was stitching. “Geralt, Geralt she knows your name!” Jaskier hissed, terrified and taking a much firmer hold on the witcher’s shirt. “Figured that out for myself thanks,” Geralt grumbled, tugging free from the bard’s grasp and stepping forward. It was hard to know if this glowing...woman was going to be a serious threat or not. She was unlike anything he’d seen in all his years witchering or read in any bestiary.And it certainly didn’t bode well that she knew his name. Clue number three. 

“You know my name,” he began softly, “but I do not know yours.” The girl looked up then, fingers still moving, and she seemed to search her memory. “Urszula. I believe my name was Urszula. I lived in a big empty house, full of people with big empty hearts. I was engaged to be married to a stranger, an old man with a full heart, but it was full of greed”

Geralt let his sword drift toward the floor sensing no immediate threat. “And did he hurt you, this man you were meant to marry?” the witcher questioned softly. But Urszula shook her head, returning her gaze to her embroidery work. “No, but he would have once he had my family’s money. No, I ran away with a pretty girl who smelled like roses and summer rain. She had stars in her eyes and she laughed like a drunken donkey. I adored her.” Urszula finally looked up and met his eyes with a small smile. If she had the substance too, she would have been blushing. 

Jaskier cooed softly, and Geralt cursed internally as she turned her gaze to the bard. “And hello to you Count Julian Alfred Pankratz. Or should I call you your true name, Jaskier the Witcher’s Bard?” the ghost girl giggled. “You understand, you grew up in a big empty house with empty people. Though I admit, your empty people were more violent than mine. They never should have done those awful things to you. You didn’t deserve that,”comes her sympathetic greeting. Jaskier looked startled, but inched forward anyway, his poet’s heart enthralled with the story. “Did you make it?” Jaskier whispers, “You and your beloved?” 

Urszula sighed and with now shaking hands - could ghosts have shaking hands? Did they have enough hands to shake? “Not exactly. We came here to see my adored lover’s friend. A sorcerer. I wanted to have a spell to change my face so we could live together without being hunted by my family and former suitor. But something went wrong- I don’t know what. I woke up here all alone, no sign of my beloved or the sorcerer. So I am waiting for her.”

Geralt’s mind raced. Not a wraith then, she had her memories and wasn’t fueled by an uncontrollable hatred of the living, nor did there seem to be a body to burn. “I think that is incredibly sweet of you,” Jaskier nodded. “If you’d like, I could make your story into a song. Perhaps if I sing it in enough places, someone will recognize the tale and send your lover to find you here,” the bard offered with a genuine smile. 

“Jaskier. Enough,” Geralt growled, glaring at the musician. This was not the time to selfishly seek inspiration for music, especially when it might set off the very unknown specter in the room with them.They didn’t even know what she had been doing to the local villagers. Urszula smiled, setting aside her work and standing. She did not walk so much as drift closer to the bard. “I would like that, Jaskier the Witcher’s Bard. Even if she cannot come to me, our story will be alive.” The specter turned to Geralt. “You wonder why some of the villagers have come here and left better or worse. I don’t know why they come, but when they do I can see their hearts. I give them what they need. A lesson, a reward.”

She glanced at Jaskier and placed a glowing hand toward where the bard’s heart beat in his chest and frowned before stepping backward and beginning to rise into the air. “Here is your lesson Geralt of Rivia. If you learn it well, then your tale will end far happier than mine.” Geralt’s eyes closed as she began to glow brighter and brighter, the Cat potion leaving him half blinded in the light. At once it was gone, and his medallion fell still. When the witcher opened his eyes the specter was gone as if she had never been. And Jaskier was missing.

Fuck.


	2. Our Favorite Word is Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finally finds Yennefer. A short chapter this time. More to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finally finds Yennefer. A short chapter this time. More to come.

“Jaskier!” Geralt howled, angrily sheathing the sword and scouring about for any sign of the missing bard with all the advanced senses at his disposal. He could still smell the natural scent carried by the bard strong and lingering in the air where he had been moments before. Sea salt, cedar, and spring flowers. 

He could faintly, oh so faintly hear another heartbeat. It seemed to come from the floor. Was the bard below on the first floor? But why transport him there? What lesson could that possibly teach Geralt? 

He stooped low to try to get a better sense of the heartbeat, and that was when he finally noticed a tiny warm shape curled under an errant piece of parchment. It was the bard, unconscious but seemingly hale and whole but for the fact he was approximately six inches tall. 

In his panicked confusion, he managed to distantly be grateful the bard’s clothes had shrunk with him and the bard was not shivering and naked against the dirty old stone floor.”What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” Geralt whispered, gingerly scooping tiny Jaskier into his hands. He looked even smaller against Geralt’s leather gloves as he held him close to check for any other adverse signs. Nothing obvious. 

Fucking fuck. 

Okay, okay. This was magic. He knew people that could do magic. Yennefer. She could do magic. Find Yennefer. 

At least part of him pleased he had a general plan of attack, Geralt dashed down the stairs, absently noting all the torches were out now, and made his way to Roach. Unsure where to put Jaskier to avoid damaging him during the ride, Geralt settled for stowing a spare silver dagger in one of the saddle bags and slipping the sleeping Jaskier into the worn leather sheath. He then looped the leather belt attached to the sheath about his broad shoulders so the sheath itself was against his chest. 

He was urging Roach to the road and with great speed when he finally began to focus on that invisible thread tying Geralt to the unpredictable sorceress. He adjusted his path slightly, eyes forward and trying desperately not to think about the shrunken bard against his chest or what godsdamned lesson this was supposed to teach him. 

It didn’t work. 

And really, what the hell could be the point. To be responsible and keep another living thing alive? He proved that well enough with Roach! That he could fight magic? He would think that his many years of witchering could testify to that. 

Gods it was going to be so damn hard to keep the bard safe now. It had been bad enough when he’d had to look after the reckless overly curious bard as a full grown adult. Now leaving him alone in an inn would be filled with near death experiencing waiting to happen. Not to mention what would happen if other people got a look at the tiny bard. He’d be sold off as a funny trinket, chained to a desk and forced to dance and sing. Or maybe just tortured and torn apart. Fuck sorcerers and their spooky hide outs full of weird ghosts. 

Fuck. 

The thread drew tight, meaning he’d soon be near Yennefer. Geralt couldn’t begin to guess how long he had been riding at the point, it had all jumbled together. A few hours maybe. He slowed Roach as they got close to a smaller city’s border. Quickly he found an inn and was begrudgingly was given a room key and a stall for Roach. Trusting in the twisted magic of the djinn’s wish he simply settled at a table at the local tavern with an ale and waited. 

Sure enough, less than thirty minutes after his arrival the smell of gooseberries, lilac, and the crackling ozone of chaos preceded the dramatic entrance of the powerful sorceress in a low cut down that seemed to be made of carefully placed bits of lace and little else. Violet eyes narrowed when she caught sight of the witcher, and she ignored his gesture for her to come closer. She settled instead by the bar, ordering a glass of red wine and flirting with some poor random sap for a bit before making her way to his table. 

“Geralt, what a surprise. Though I am shocked to see your pet bard isn’t here to nip at your heels,” she drawled, taking a long sip of wine. “Yennefer. Please. I need your help,” he whispered, not bothering with the banter. Something in his eyes or voice must have struck her as sincere, as Yennefer settled her glass down and seemed to survey him. He felt a gentle wash of her magic over him. 

Her well sculpted eyebrows arched suddenly. “What on earth kind of enchantment-” she began, but Geralt shook his head. “I have to show you, but not here,” he insisted. Cooly, the sorceress rose, not even bothering to finish her wine, which spoke volumes to her genuine concern. He lifted a brow and she rolled her eyes. “It was shit anyway. Let’s go, my professional curiosity is piqued,” she demanded. 

They made their way back to the inn and up to Geralt’s room. Stumbling over his words, after all the bard was a storyteller, not him, Geralt relayed as much as he could remember. Yennefer looked out towards the window. “That story does seem oddly familiar somehow, though I can’t place where I know it,” she murmured, turning her critical gaze back to the witcher. “So what did this Urszula do to teach you a lesson?”. Wordlessly, Geralt upturned the dagger sheath and slid the still sleeping miniature bard into his palms. 

The sight of a tiny Jaskier curled into the witcher’s palm startled a laugh out of her, before her brows furrowed. Carefully, she stretched her hand alight with the purple glow of her chaos to hover just over the doll sized annoyance that was usually the witcher’s musical shadow. When she spoke it was with deepest sincerest and a depth of emotion he’d never suspected her capable of. 

“Fuck”.


	3. Of Failures and Damned Arse Shakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's awake! And a brief look into the not so platonic feelings Geralt is repressing for his bard. Yennefer begins her plan to torture Geralt and ultimately safe the Continent from the unresolved sexual tension these two have been dragging through it.

Jaskier doesn’t ask for a lot from life. Not really. A bit of luxury here and there, a pleasant audience, a three word review from a grumpy witcher, and on occasion, a bed. And e works hard for all those things, endless hours of walking on uneven terrain, drunken unwelcome fondling of his person, being belittled by dangerous powerful people who want to manipulate his witcher, and nearly dying at the hands of monsters and malicious townsfolk alike. It is enough to make anyone a bit twitchy and grumpy. So when the bard startles away from a rather deep sleep featuring a lovely dream of Valdo Marx being chased through town by a band of angry prostitutes with torches and musical instruments to the terrifying massive golden eye of what can only be a wyvern or other carnivorous beast, he panics a bit and jabs it right in the eye. 

“Ow, fuck!” a familiar, but significantly louder than usual, voice grumbles as the irritated golden eye retreats. Jaskier quickly spins to take in his surroundings, and “Gods Geralt, the ghost lady has made you a giant! How in the hell are we meant to deal with this!? You can’t go back to the inn like ...like some prehistoric sexy mountain beast! You already scared the piss out of the townsfolk when we checked in! What kind of lesson is this meant to be!?” Jaskier rambles, pacing back and forth on an oddly fluffy woolen floor. 

“My, my. Excitable little thing isn’t he?” Yennefer purred, clearly delighted by her one-time foe’s out right panic. But the sight of the sorceress, equally gigantic in stature with sharp violet eyes glancing at him like he is nothing but an ant to crush under her incredibly expensive but also likely stolen jewel-encrusted high heeled boots. 

“The ghost got Yennefer too!?” Jaskier shrieks, nearly falling over. But wait. Yennefer hadn’t been at the tower. She was in Aretuza, introducing Ciri to Tissia. And frankly, super powered glowing ghosts with inexplicable life altering powers simply are not a match for a mildly inconvenienced Yennefer of Vengerburg. Little is, except perhaps a determined demi-god. Or a real god.But divine intervention aside, not much was legally or metaphysically allowed to fuck with Yennefer. Which meant…

Inhaling as much as his shrunken little lungs could manage, the bard let loose a torrent of profanity that would turn a sailor’s ears red. Geralt even learned a few new terms, an impressive feat for one so old and so well acquainted with expletives and their varied uses. He stomped his feet rather adorably and paced a new hole in the old fraying blue blanket strewn across the inn bed. “Why is it that GERALT has to learn a lesson and I end up the size of a godsforsaken thimble!?” Jaskier concluded, mustering his best glare for the ginormous witcher. Admittedly, Geralt did not seem very cowed. 

“You aren’t the size of a thimble. Don’t exaggerate,” the Witcher grumbled, pausing to reach for a tankard of ale the innkeeper had sent up with a light lunch for her guests. It was actually halfway decent ale and he was going to need a lot more of it to get through this conversation. 

“Oh ho ho, I’m sorry, are you the one who got shrunk?!? No?! Then zip it! For fuck’s sake did you even save the cursed bard anything to eat or drink?” Jaskier snapped, scurrying to the edge of the bed and took a flying leap for the little rickety oak bedside table. Geralt panicked and shot a hand forward in case Jaskier miscalculated his trajectory and ended up plummeting to the ground below. 

Damned fool bard. More reckless than any witcher or drunk he’d met before, and twice as fragile now. Geralt nudged a full plate and a second full-sized tankard towards where the colorful little doll-sized bard had plopped down on the edge of the candle stick holder. 

“You should get used to it bard. At the moment the only way to turn you back is Geralt learning his lesson, and chaos knows he takes lifetimes to get his head around those,” Yennefer mocked, draping herself dramatically against the desk and sipping a wine goblet that most certainly had not come from this inn. 

Jaskier didn’t respond though, too distracted by the problem in front of him. “Geralt, dearheart, beloved witcher mine-” and Geralt had to fight the visceral pleasure rocking through his nerve-endings at the sweet nothings and subtle claiming regard set fire to his slow churning blood. But it was Jaskier and his casual flirting, nothing he said to Geralt had any real substance. And the reminder only left him feeling colder, a painful shocking jump for his system from boiling to frozen. 

“Moonlit light of my life,” the bard continued, “ Do you genuinely not see any problem here?” Jaskier inquired with a sweeping bow directed towards the food and ale. “No?” Geralt answered in confusion. “Food’s fine. Ale’s pretty good.”

Yennefer had sat up and begun to frown at Geralt, peering around him at the bard and his perfectly fine meal. And maybe the witcher still instinctively put himself between Jaskier and others, but if he did it was no one else’s business anyway. 

“Seriously Geralt, you haven’t noticed a slight issue here with your attempts to feed the shrunken irritation?” Yennefer poked, literally with a well manicured nail, and figuratively with a teasing tone. 

“No. There’s no problem,” he bit back, turning to glare at the sorceress. Yennefer only rolled her eyes and sighed as she finished off the wine and circled around him to lean down on the nightstand by the bard.

“You know bardling,I have never liked you, and I never will. But obviously Geralt is going to kill you before you can be fixed, and I do admire your pettiness and ability to deal with the walking, not-talking, mountain here. So I promise to fake cry and make up some lovely lies about you when we bury you. Presumably in one of my old shoeboxes in the garden at Kaer Morhen,” she finished with a conspiratorial wink. 

Jaskier stood and shuffled across the uneven surface of the night stand, leaning against one of Yennefer’s folded lace-clad arms like a weary traveller taking refuge beside a tree. “That is all I could ever ask for,” the bard intoned in mock solemnity. 

“What is the DAMNED problem!?!’ the witcher snarled, gold eyes flashing in irritation at being the butt of whatever secret joke the two long times enemies were making. All he wanted was to care for the bard, just a bit. Provide just enough to sate his moronic instincts that claimed the bard was pack, maybe even more than pack, and needed protection and care. The very part of him that was growing more and more furious at the implication he would fail and was failing at offering that care. 

Jaskier inched forward and made dramatic grabby hands until the witcher inched closer. He couldn’t really wrap an arm around the black leather clad shoulders of his witcher - and what a pity, because they were fantastic shoulders- and settled for a firm grip on the witcher’s calloused and lightly scarred pinkie. 

“Geralt, I am currently a teeny tiny bard. And as much as I’ve joked about drowning in ale, I would like a few more years of musically harassing you before I meet my end, and I’d prefer my end not to be drowning in ale or stew, my generous, oblivious friend,” the bard explained, all joking smothered from his voice. 

And damn those cornflower eyes, tiny as they were, for soothing the rumbling roar in Geralt’s chest. Damn the little bard for taming a monster, and not even realizing he held the leash. Moving away, and he did NOT miss the tiny warm hands of his companion, absolutely not, Geralt fumbled for a pair of thimbles from the sewing and first aid kits and scooped up ale and bits of stew accordingly. 

With a pleased hum, the bard set to his meal, thanking the witcher. And Geralt’s heart was almost calm and back to normal when Jaskier turned to the carefully observing chaos-wielder and declared “Have you a tea cup and a handerkerif, oh sparkly evil one? For I should like a bath.” 

And just like that, the white wolf’s heart beat was kick-started back into overdrive. Yennefer clearly knew it when she gave a sharp smirk and summoned a dainty little glass full of hot water. An entirely clear, smooth rounded glass full of hot water. That Jaskier was currently stripping to dive into.

Damn the bard. Damn the witch. Damn the detailed super eye sight granted by witcher mutagens. And thrice damned be the sassy little arse shake Jaskier managed as he sauntered toward his bath. 

Gods. Damn.


	4. Ten Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping trips, a glimpse into what Aretuza's best graduate and a travelling bard bond over, and Geralt opens an old wound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the wonderful people who have read this so far, and especially those who have commented. Y'all make my day.

Geralt left the inn for ten minutes, and apparently ten minutes is how long it takes for everything to go to shit. 

He’d tried and failed to stop staring at the naked bard soaking in the transparent glass for several minutes before declaring he had things to buy at the market (he didn’t ) and he expected the mini bard and mischievous sorceress to remain in the room and out of trouble ( he did not, though a naive part of him did pray for it). 

He’d picked up a few provisions, a thin bound notebook and set of charcoal pencils, and a few odds and ends that might be useful in adapting things to suit the shrunken lutist waiting for him back at the inn. Naked. No, no, bad thoughts. 

It had been an efficient and quick trip, because despite the fact Jaskier and Yennerfer loudly proclaimed their continued hatred of each other, it was plain that they did genuinely enjoy each other’s company and cared at least a bit for each other. They had more in common than one would have guessed at first glance: experience with the best and worst of court life, discerning (though sometimes conflicting) fashion senses, a love of finery and luxury, confidence and arrogance, and most unfortunately for Geralt : a bone deep need to stir shit up. 

In those ten minutes not thinking about just how well Geralt could see the dimples in the bard’s lower back, or the lean muscle he carried from walking the Path alongside the witcher, Geralt had forgotten to be worried that when he had left, Yennerfer had muttered that she was bored. 

First step in the inn and already the witcher knew they were in trouble. Tiny Jaskier- thankfully dressed, no doubt by Yennefer and her chaos, was dancing fluidly along the somewhat sticky wooden bartop, singing ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ to the uproaring applause of his audience. Yennefer was seated at the bar - in a different but equally grandiose ball gown ill-suited for this no-name backwater village, smirking and her hands glowing a soft purple. ‘Well, let’s just shout out all their secrets, then’ Geralt grumbled to himself internally. Maybe he should grab a napkin and draw a map to Kaer Morhen or describe exactly where and how to find Ciri. Or list all the mutagens a witcher gets. Maybe Yenn could tell the creepy story about Aretuza and the eels. Or Jaskier could remind everyone he was briefly a spy.

For fuck’s own sake. 

Jaskier bowed and ambled back to Yennefer’s waiting palm. Her free hand scooped up the gathered coins thrown at the dancing bard (well, roughly in his direction, since most of the patrons were blind drunk). “Yes, yes, thank you dear people. But my enchanted music box doll and I must be getting back to our rooms,” she purred, eyeing a sticky fingered child who was trying to snatch up the bard. 

“Ah, ah. None of that, or I’ll turn you into a toad,” Yennefer warned, earning a terrified squeak and rapid retreat by the little girl. She paused to meet Geralt’ exasperated gaze and lifted a single brow as if to silently ask ‘What ? What did you expect?” and tossing her vivid dark curls over her shoulder and languidly returning up the stairs. 

Geralt stomped up after her, purchases in a cloth sack at his side. He didn’t even bother with a hello once he made it into the room. “Of all the stupid, idiotic, moronic, poorly-planned, fool-hardy ideas, what on earth possessed you to choose that one!?” the witcher snapped, tossing the bag onto the bed and rounding on the unimpressed witch and the tiny bardling, who was settled once more on the curved edge of the candlestick holder on the bedside table. 

“We were bored. And besides, the little songbird felt bad he was going to have no way to contribute coin while he was the size of an underwhelming breadstick. I found a solution,” Yennefer explained, flapping one hand dismissively in his direction. 

Jaskier was counting his earned coins, needing both hands to drag a single coin from the pile Yennefer had carelessly set down. “See! Talent is talent no matter how small! This should be enough with what we already have to buy us supplies to get to Kaer Morhen!’ the bard chirped excitedly.

“And who precisely decided we are going to Kaer Morhen?” came the deadly hiss from a now furious witcher, directly mainly at the sorceress. But Jaskier’s tiny shoulders slumped and he halted the arduous process of counting his coin. The genuine smile dropped clean off his angular and lovely face to be replaced by his performance smile, far more brittle and shallow than the original. 

Rotten lemons filled the air, the scent of Jaskier’s resigned sadness. Arguably Geralt’s least favorite smell, and yes that included kikimora guts. “Of course my dear,” Jaskier said softly, “I didn’t mean to assume you’d be inviting me to see your home or meet your family. That was...my mistake.” Geralt would do damn near anything to get that horrid mask of a smile off his bard’s face and the stench of decaying lemons out of the air. 

Yennefer paused to send a pointed glare his way and really it was startling how much she could communicate with just a look. For example, this look seemed to be saying: “You utter dumbass. I can’t believe this idiot has been following you for decades and you’ve never invited him to Kaer Morhen or let him meet the other witchers, you massive twat? Have those potions liquified your brains and poured them out your ears? Fix it before I hex you to rhyme every time you speak’. 

Truly an underrated talent. 

“I need some air. It reeks of stupid in here,” the violet eyed witch muttered, gliding towards the door with a final glare at the witcher. “If you need booze, give me a call, Jaskier. If you need booze Geralt, suck it up. Ta!” 

Geralt slowly settled on the bed, turning to face the bard’s back as the tiny performer pretended to be engrossed in rubbing the proud face of some long dead king off one of the coins. “Jask,” Geralt rumbled, disappointed the bard continued to avoid his gaze. “I didn’t mean it like that. I do want you to come to Kaer Morhen, and with the winter coming it might be the safest place for us to look for answers while making sure nothing else happens to you. I was just annoyed at Yenn, for encouraging you to pretend to be some animated doll downstairs and for inviting people to a place she’s only gone once to pick up Ciri.”

Geralt’s hands clenched to fists, with the bard the tiny size he currently was, he couldn’t exactly grab him by the shoulders and turn him around. Words were hard, feelings harder, and both nearly impossible for Geralt to express properly. “I understand,”Jaskier said softly, but the rotten lemon smell only increased. 

“It’s just….why have you never invited me before Geralt? It’s been so many years...I thought you would have come to trust me...like I trust you,” the bard whispered, the muscles of his back tensed and eyes looking into the distance. 

Geralt’s tongue was heavy as lead in his mouth, and words became vapor in his throat. Thankfully he would be granted more time to formulate an answer when a loud crack of broken glass came from the first floor of the inn, along with the innkeeper giving an enraged shout of “OI! Who threw a witcher through my window!?”


	5. Lambert Isn't the Best at Acronyms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Lambert!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert gets the story after briefly reflecting on events in Geralt's life previous to the specter's shrinking of Jaskier.

Jaskier was unceremoniously shoved back into the leather dagger sheath which was again looped around the Witcher’s sturdy shoulders. “I protest this treatment, Geralt!” the bard hissed over the sound of Geralt pounding down the stairs, sword in hand. It was the silver sword, and Jaskier didn’t like to think about the implications.

Silver was for monsters after all.

Smooshed thoroughly and out of sight, Jaskeir had to depend on the grumbling Witcher to figure out what was going on. Considering Geralt would happily go a month or more with three sentence words and grunts, it left the curious bard in a very unpleasant situation. Thankfully through time and dedication, Jaskier had mostly become fluent in Geralt-ese. A guttural language if there ever was one.

“Hmmm.”

Ooh that was a positive grunt. A friend and not a foe. Though with a slightly confused twist to the end of the grunt, as if to imply “Oh good it’s you. But why are you here and why have you been implemented in destruction of property?”

Presumably another Wolf School Witcher. Though it could be the one from the Griffin school. Not likely to be the Cat witcher Aiden, he’d be more skeptical and less pleased. Not that Jaskier had meant any other witchers, but in the rare occasion Geralt was moved to talk, Jaskier listened. He guarded those little snippets of the secret softer parts Geralt like stolen jewels.

“Fucking hell Geralt! What’re you doing here? And you’ve got the witch with you. No big surprise there. Gonna buy a pint for the poor guy chucked through a window or what ?” came the unfamiliar and rather snarky witcher, accompanied by the tink of glass shards being slid off a leather armoured body and onto old knotty wooden floors.

“Upstairs, need to talk,” muttered Geralt as he took Lambert’s hand and hauled him up to his feet. Lambert quirked a brow and said “Ale first,” ignoring Yennefer as he snagged the tankard and ambling up the stairs as Geralt was left to fork over their coin to pay for window repairs.

“I have to run out, someone to speak to, but I’ll be back in a few hours,” she murmured softly as she rose to her feet, just loud enough for Witcher hearing, before sauntering out the door.

That left a significantly poorer Geralt to climb the stairs after his brother. Lambert had been able to smell his brother, the witch, and a new scent of salt water, cedar, and something floral.

Lambert didn’t want to ask about the legendary bard that apparently had spent at least two decades trailing after his asshole older brother despite being regularly dismissed, left behind, and neglected.

Then had come the ‘Mountain Incident’ as Vesemir and Eskel referred to it, and ‘Geralt’s Supernova Massive Self-Destructive Uber-Asshole Ultimate Fuck Up of Epic Proportions That Ruined The One Positive Constant In His Life in a Fit of Misplaced Rage and Self-Loathing’ (G.S.M.S.D.U.A.U.F.U.O.E.P.T.R.T.O.P.C.I.H.L.I.A.F.M.R.A.S.L for short) as Lambert, Yennefer, and on occasion, Ciri, referred to it as.

The miserable sod had come up the mountain that winter with story of how he’d finally broken the bard after decades of neglect with a few pointed cutting crushing words. He’d been unbearable that winter and each one since. Things had improved slightly with Ciri coming to the keep, but the spectre of Geralt’s spectacular fuck up continued to hang over him.

Finally, before departing for part of her training with Yennefer and Triss, Ciri had planted two newly sword calloused hands on either side of Geralt’s face and demanded he find Jaskier and apologise, with the ferocious and expectation that had sharply reminded everyone present of the way Calanthe had commanded the room (and the armies and navies and castle guard).

Helpless to obey in the face of his imperious well meaning charge, Geralt had got his head out of his ass and went hunting. It had taken months to find the half dead bard with a shellacked brittle grin and an air of defeat, and longer to fix things between them. Time and genuine change on Geralt’s part had healed most of the wounds, though they’d damned sure scarred and ached. For the life of him, Lambert couldn’t figure out why Geralt hadn’t just told the bard point blank he was in love, or at least brought him to Kaer Morhen. If Gerat had fucked up and lost the bard again, he was getting stabbed. At least thrice. Satisfied with a plan of action, the dark haired witcher resumed lounging.

Geralt was still grumpy when he came in and closed the door. But he was always grumpy, reasoned Lambert with an internal shrug. “Sorry about the window. Killed a nekker nest outside of town but destroyed that farmer’s fields in the process. Bombs don’t discriminate between monsters and carrots. Chased me I to town and I suppose everyone saw and figured ‘meh fuck it, let’s toss the random Witcher I to a building, I’ve got nothing else going on’ and joined in the fun.” Lambert drawled, concluding with another pull from his tankard of ale.

“See you’ve got the witch around. Where’s the bardling? If you’ve lost him again your Child Surprise will have your head you know,” Lambert half teased. Geralt tolled his eyes and unhooked his dagger sheath, once again shaking the bard out and into his palm.

“Would it kill you to be gentle!?” the bard groused, dusting himself off. “Reserve a little dignity for me please!” Jaskier turned and raking his appraising gaze over the new Witcher. “Hello handsome. Jaskier the Bard at your service “ he pronounced with a dramatic low bow.

Lambert stared back for a solid minute in stunned silence before rolling off the bed and onto the floor belly-laughing. By the time he had mostly gained control of himself, Jaskier had grumpily settled on the candle stick holder again and was sipping more ale from a thimble.

Geralt has stationed himself in a way that angled him slightly between the mini bard and his brother. Always the defensive one, Lambert mused as he wiped a tear from his eye and stood.

“Okay, okay, bardling. What did you do to piss off the witch?” Lambert inquired. “I didn’t do shit!” Jaskier snapped, waving his thimble at Geralt to get more ale. Geralt delicately took hold of the thimble pinched between two gloved fingers and dipped it into the mug, shaking it slightly to rid the outside of droplets before silently returning it to Jaskier’s outstretched hands. “Geralt’s the one who the ghost was picking on.”

Now that caught Lambert’s attention. “A regular ghost pulled this off? I didn’t think ghosts could wield magic like this?” he muttered, eyeing the bard once more as though there was some secret tell as to the explanation somewhere upon his person.

Begrudgingly and in as few syllables as possible relayed the tale for the second time today. Jaskier genuinely felt a bit bad. He knew it really did make Geralt very uncomfortable. But as the one who got cursed, he was kind of preoccupied processing exactly what this meant for him. He couldn’t play the lute, he had to stay out of sight, there was almost nothing he could do independently anymore and they had no idea how to remedy the situation. If he thought too long about it, he’d surely start to scream or maybe even cry. And he couldn’t do that, not where Geralt could see or hear. Poor man already probably felt quite guilty since Jaskier’s condition was meant to help Geralt somehow. Jaskier certainly didn’t blame Geralt, hell he didn’t even blame Urzsula. She really believed this would help, had promised that if Geralt could figure it out the two of them would be happy.

Jaskier would do anything for the brooding softhearted giant currently brooding in the room with him happy. Take Jaskier’s kidneys, freeze him, starve him, beat him, shrink him. If there was a sliver of a hope of making Geralt’s life better, then Jaskier could endure it. If he focused on that and less on how this would alter Jaskier’s life.

“Well fuck me, that’s one hell of a day,” Lambert sighed. He eyed Jaskier’s still mostly full mug of ale and Jaskier jumped up to stand defensively with his arms spread. “Yeah and it’s been MY one hell of a day. Keep away from my ale or I will bite you witcher!” he snarled.

Both witchers bit their tongues to keep from cooing. It would have been cute to hear the bard try to snarl if he’d been full sized, but at all of six inches the adorableness was almost too much. "Fine, I am a big boy I can get drunk on my own. But Geralt, you must know the best place for the bard is Kaer Morhen. Sure it's a bit run down, but there's Vesemir and the Kaer Morhen library. According to Eskel there ain't shit that's ever been that we don't have written about in that dusty old library.Besides, ain't it time you brought him home?" Lambert half teased, giving a sharp look at the end. Geralt growled softly in reply. 

"I was planning on asking Jaskier, if you and Yenn would give me the chance to!" he bit out, gold eyes glowing furnance bright. "Well you have had literally decades so," Lambert snarked back, arms crossed over his armored chest. "More ale!" the bard demanded, breaking the tension as Geralt turned to refill the thimble. "Now, Geralt, please ask me what you wanted to," demanded Jaskier primly in between sips. Geralt could only roll his eyes, biting back a fond smile. 

"Jaskier, would you accompany me to Kaer Morhen, alongside my idiot brother?" grumbled Geralt. Lambert began to retort, but caught a sharp elbow from his feral older brother and turned it into a cough. "Nothing would delight me more, dear wolf," Jaskier answered with a smile and another sip. Doubt still lingered in the bard's scent with his earlier question left unanswered, but the reek of rotting lemons had subsided into a more mellow ginger and orange of mild contentment. Geralt could work with that, even if it would be tricker than usual to stay neutral and control with Lambert around to rile him up. This would be a long few weeks.


	6. Aard the Bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert continues to quietly ship Geralt and Jaskier. And to not so quietly antagonize Yenn. Meanwhile Jaskier reflects on his new circumstances and the left over effects from the mountain incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll are amazing, I live for these amazing readers and I re-read your comments like ten times. Again if there's something you wanna see I'd love to work it in. Keep safe out there.

The wolves and their bard settled in for the night. Lambert set his bedroll on the floor by the fire with minimal fuss and plenty of snoring, meanwhile Jaskier had settled on a corner of Geralt’s pillow with a relatively clean wool sock as his sleeping bag. Lambert had thoughtfully added an almost clean handkerchief for a blanket and extra insulation. 

Sleep was hard to find for Jaskier, who was trying to remain calm and jovial about the terrifying fact he was small enough to slumber in a woolen sock. He couldn’t even play the lute like this, or accomplish basic tasks like bathing alone or feeding himself. It was awful to feel vulnerable like this, so much more so than usual. 

He couldn’t bring himself to blame anyone though. Urzula had been such a compelling and tragic figure. He’d seen no bitterness in her when she recounted her sorrowful separation from her beloved. She just wanted to try to help people, even if she had unorthodox methods of doing so.And he still had every intention of commemorating her and her beloved in ballad form. 

Geralt was blaming himself, as per usual. Jaskier refused to contribute to his dear Witcher’s self-flagellation, the rest of the world did more than enough to support Geralt’s self-loathing. He hadn’t even irritated the nice ghost lady, it certainly wasn’t his fault. 

Part of Jaskier blamed himself, as he always did when anything went wrong in Geralt’s life. He wasn’t sure entirely the hows or whys of it being his own fault, but it was usually a correct assumption. The mountain had proven that. 

He shook off the thoughts, renewing his resolve to remain positive about these new circumstances, especially since he was going to finally get to see Kaer Morhen and meet his Witcher’s family.

With a huff, the bard was asleep. 

“Don’t fuck this up,” Lambery grumbled in his brother’s general direction. “You’re getting a lot of second chances. Show him you really give a shit and you might just salvage your personal and romantic clusterfuck.” 

Geralt turned his golden gaze toward the tiny musician asleep beside him, snoring softly. Lambert was right, this was an opportunity to show Jaskier he was a caring friend. And privately, it appealed to his instinctive need to protect and provide for his flamboyant companion. Not willing to verbalize any of this, and even less willing to admit Lambert was correct, Geralt offered a grunt and closed his eyes. As shadows from the fire flickered over the walls and bathed the dingy little room in comfort and warmth, a new warmth was settling somewhere below the witcher’s breastbone. 

The morning brought oatmeal for breakfast and bits of fresh apples - a pleasant indulgence. Jasker sat on a slice of floating apple as he rowed through the oatmeal with a toothpick, courtesy of Lambert, and scooping up bits of oatmeal in his thimble. He abandoned his boat to soak in hot water a bit while the witchers wolfed down their food and made plans for how to proceed. 

“Well we need more coin since you decided to break windows with your thick head,” Geralt grumbled at his brother, arms folded in front of him. Goodness, lovely, muscular arms, and Jaskier could just- nope! Nope! Bad brain, you stop that right now! 

“I didn’t decide shit. I was a witcher projectile entirely unwillingly. But that’s fair, we need more supplies to bring up. Should we wait till your witch comes back from baking children into pies or whatever she does during her free time?” Lambert teased. Geralt half growled, stealing his brother’s ale, much to Lambert’s displeasure, and drinking half of it. “Not my witch,” the silver haired man mumbled. 

“And no. We don’t have the time. I’ll go look at the postings for the town and let them know about the tower. You stay here and keep the bard alive. The two of you will have to work hard to avoid getting killed or burning the place down, but I am trying to have faith.” 

“My Geralt! Look at all those complete sentences. Will I have to wait a year before you speak again now,” teased Jaskier as he clambered out of his bathing glass and shimmeyed into his clothes. “Shut it bard,” snapped Geralt as he quickly donned his swords and signature scowl, pausing at the doorway to levy both men with a heavy glare. 

“I mean it. No fire, no bombs, no property destruction, no public performances pretending to be an enchanted doll, no getting drunk, and absolutely no signs or chaos-wielding.” Lambert rolled his eyes and waved his brother off. When he was sure Geralt had left the building, he turned his amber gaze to the mini bard. 

“Hey bardling. Do you know what the sign Aard does?” he inquired with a wicked grin. Two hours later and they were still playing Aard the Bard, with Lambert gently blasting Jaskier up to the ceiling with the sign before racing around the room to try to catch him before he fell. Jaskier whooped and screamed with delight the entire time, and even Lambert’s usual smirk had softened into a genuine smile. 

Thank gods the bardling at least knew how important playing about was, as his numbskull brothers had forgotten in their sacred quest to become the most stoic assholes of all history and time. Grr, look at me, I’m a big bad witcher and if someone tries to make me do something remotely fun I break out in hives. The bard laughed hysterically until he fell over when Lambert told him that. They transitioned into funny stories Geralt would skewer them for sharing about his exploits in monster-slaying and attempts at socializing. Lambert had some real gems from Geralt’s early witchering days.

Lambert went down to get lunch and bumped right into the returning witch, dulling the excited buzz he’d been feeling from laughing and fooling around with the bard. If Geralt wasn’t so attached to the bard Lambert would have stolen him for himself. 

“So, how was snacking on the dreams of children?” he snarked, stealing a fresh napkin to offer the bard. The sock bed had to be getting sweaty. “Yes, they taste like cotton candy and mead. I have a contact who is looking into the story and into solutions.I also brought a few things for Jaskier. I don’t need months of his simpering and whining as a soundtrack to this misadventure,” came the sorceress’ callous retort. 

“Aw, you do care!” cooed Lambert mockingly, dodging a zip of lightning that zoomed past his head and nearly singed his hair. “Watch it, don’t go messing up my looks.” Yennefer rolled her eyes, smirking at him as she summoned an ornate goblet of wine. “You were born ugly and worked hard to make it worse. Burned hair would just be the cherry on top.” 

A low growl attempted to crawl out from Lambert’s ribs, but he bit it back. “It’s called ‘rugged good looks, sweetheart. I wouldn’t want to look like some soft fat mageling like the men your kind turn into. Look at Stregobor. Who wants that?” the witcher spat out. 

Yennefer shuddered, taking another sip of wine. “God I don’t even want to think about that. Keep your hideous naked Stregobor thoughts to yourself wolf!” Lambert swallowed back vomit. “Gods why’d you add ‘naked’!?! Now I can’t get that image out of my head! Gah!” he howled, looking for a sturdy wall to bash his head into. 

“You implied naked Stregobor! I just verbalized it! You are the one who created this cursed image and now it’ll haunt us both!”Yennefer snapped back, putting a hand to her rolling stomach. The gagging transitioned to laughing, which in turn involved snacking off their lunch to quiet their aching stomachs. 

“Where is the bard?” Yennefer inquired after her second glass of wine. “Ah, left him upstairs for a bit. We just finished a round of Aard the Bard and he was all tuckered out. Doubt there’s too much he can get into up there,” the wolf witcher shrugged, gathering the rest of lunch to bring up with them. “Never underestimate the White Wolf’s bard,” she chaistened as they began the climb upstairs.

Without bothering to knock, Lambert kicked open the door, platter of food held before him in outstretched arms like an offering. “Oi, bard! Food’s ready.” Despite his loud proclamation, the bard didn’t greet him, or make any indication of his location in the room. 

Scanning the room carefully with all the strength the mutagens burned into his eyes, Lambert saw no sign of his tiny companion. “Aw fuck,” the young wolf sighed, setting down the food and flopping on the bed. “Geralt’s gonna tan my hide. And I like my hide. It’s a nice hide,” he bemoaned, to Yennefer’s amusement. 

“Quit whining and get hunting then witcher,” the sorceress drawled, settling in by the desk. Hunt, right. Lambert could definitely hunt. This would be a piece of cake…..right? Right?


	7. These Are A Few of Geralt's Favorite Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quest continues. And watch your eyebrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title was meant to be a reference to little important things like the song A Few Of My Favorite Things from Sound of Music. Also Jaskier is a feral bard, which we all love and respect him for.

Wrong.

Very, very wrong. 

Lambert had been hunting through the room and the inn beyond for at least two hours and there was no sign of the bard. He was damnably small, so easy to be stepped on, fall in an inconvenient space, get carried off by an ambitious squirrel, gods only know what. Even the witch had begun casting about as casually as possible in her skin tight leather and diamond dress. 

The innkeeper, after glaring at Lambert when he was recognized as the projectile that broke the window, asked if they were looking for mice. If only. It was fall and night came quicker so soon it would be dark. 

Lambert had just finished searching under an overturned bowl when Yennfer’s head snapped over to face the window. “I can hear his mind,” she murmured, tugging Lambert out the door and around the side of the inn. They were beside the stables, and finally in the light of the stable torches they spotted a tiny figure struggling with something heavy that he dragged behind him. 

“You fool!” Lambert snarled, scooping up the bardling and his undoubtedly stolen treasure and marching upstairs towards the relative safety of the room. Yennefer followed behind, rubbing her temples in exasperation and ignoring the irritated squawking of the captive musician. She was going to need to start summoning the hard liquor next. 

The wolf witcher dropped Jaskier somewhat carelessly on the bed and began a vaguely parental lecture about being safe and responsible. If anyone else from the witcher school had heard it they would have fell over laughing. Lambert acting like a father with a wayward child, when he was usually only slightly better than a child himself (by witcher standards anyways). 

The bard stood with arms crossed, staring definitely at the enraged giant pacing the wooden floor before him without a care. “I would have left you a note, but it isn’t like I have the supplies!” Jaskier interrupted. “I spotted it from the window and climbed down to get it.” 

“What exactly did you risk life and limb for, you arrogant tart?” Yennefer groaned, newly summoned liquor in hand. Jaskier merely arched a brow, pointing to his thimble imperiously. “I want some too. And that’s Master Tart to you, hag.” 

Yennefer rolled her eyes and added a drop or two to the thimble, presenting it with a bow. Jaskier replied with an equally exaggerated bow before accepting it. Yennefer did not snort at the display, she’d deny it to her dying day.She was a sorceress of Aretuza and far too dignified for this tomfoolery. 

After tossing back his liquor, Jaskier unveiled his trophy. A large brass button. “Seriously?” Lamber groaned, slapping his head dejectedly. “Yes.” the bard insisted, his chest puffed out. “Gerlat needs a new button for his cloak. The old button popped off and now it just doesn’t close correctly. This is almost exactly the same size as the old button was.” 

And oh, that made something go soft and warm in Yennefer and Lambert’s chests. Stupid little bard so foolishly in love with that oblivious witcher that he’d notice something so miniscule and risk his tiny colorful life to fix even the smallest things for him. “Now open the sewing kit and fetch me some thread and a needle!” Jaskier demanded. 

Yennefer laid out the cloak, which Geralt had determined was unnecessary tonight due to the lingering heat from the warmer weather, on the bed. Meanwhile, Lambert fetched the sewing kit and helped thread the needle. It took a fair amount of maneuvering and effort, but some time later the bard had secured the large shiny brass button with the enamel print of forget-me-nots to the top of the witcher’s cloak.

As Yennefer set it back down over the chair, Lambert got a wicked gleam in his eyes as he went to pack up the kit. Quick as a flash the witcher had looped a bit of threat around the bard’s waist and lightly cinched it. “There! Now there’s no way we’ll lose you!” Lambert crowed. Jaskier immediateyl began swearing and trying to bite and claw his way out. 

With a laugh, Yennefer snapped her fingers and a child’s balloon, bright violet in color, was suddenly bound to one end of the thread. “Now we won’t lose him,” she added proudly around her laughter. “Just follow the balloon!” 

“I will shave your eyebrows off while you sleep,” Jaskier hissed, trying to drag down the balloon and pop it. “ Unfortunately that intimidated absolutely no one. More unfortunately, he wasn’t kidding, and was already plotting how to find something small and sharp enough to de-eyebrow people once they’d all gotten to Kaer Morhen. Whilst they were laughing, a mildly humiliated and definitely plotting bard crawled under the bed to mope. 

"Wait....WHERE'D HE GO NOW!?"


	8. Shaming, Seduction, Threats, and Snowflakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the oddness begin. And we are now short a sorcercess. But not for long! Also, I indulge in my feral!Jaskier headcannons and the notion Geralt is the only person wise enough to take the bard's temper seriously. 
> 
> No eyeballs or goats were harmed in the writing of this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys rock my world. Hope you are staying safe out there!.

Geralt returned from his last minute job with three kikimora heads tied to his saddle, a headache, and a sluggishly bleeding gash in his side. He grunts his way through getting paid, and only rolls his eyes a little when he is predictably underpaid. Jaskier usually is the one who passive aggressively forces contract-holders to pay up with a mix of shaming, seduction, and threats. 

All things the bard specializes in. 

Jaskier has been on his mind this entire hunt, which isn’t necessarily anything new. The bard has a knack for getting into trouble at the best of times, always flirting with the wrong person, hiding in the worst spot on a dangerous hunt, or poking the wrong cursed object. Really, after the fourth time you’d think he’d have some sense of what not to poke, but in every sense of the word, he did not. 

Still it isn’t a bad amount of coin all things considered. They’ll have to keep moving to get closer to Kaer Morhen, and there are a few villages and towns along the way that might have odd jobs before the group hits the bigger market at Ard Carraigh. Geralt planned to stick to quick jobs, especially since Yen would no doubt have to head back to pick up Ciri before making her own way up the mountain and the bard would be left unsupervised for longer periods of time. 

Maybe he should invest in some braided leather to fashion a bard leash. That could be helpful for when Jaskier returned to full size. Because he would be returned to normal size, even if Geralt had to burn down the continent to do it. 

Although judging by the sight that greeted him back in the inn, the bard leash might not be a good idea after all. He’d never seen the bard look quite so...stabby, as he did dangling from a balloon atop the bed. Apparently after losing the bard, his idiot brother and the damn sorceress had created this disaster, only to lose the bard again when he went under the bed to sulk. 

Wordlessly, Geralt jabbed at the balloon with one of his smaller daggers, swiping his free hand out to catch the thread and reeling in a sputtering furious bard in order to cut the knots tying the leash with another flick of the dagger. 

“Of all the indignities visited upon my sacred person in the pursuit of my most beloved craft and in the reshaping of the general reputation of witchers, -and let me tell you there have been many, many, MANY indignities,- the WORST by FAR has been these last thirty minutes of ridiculous tomfoolery. And the NEXT person to lash me to a balloon or any other floating marker will never have a meal again as long as I live that I have not pissed in,” Jaskier snarled.

He jabbed his little fingers in all his giant captors’ general direction, with only Geralt fully aware that the tiny bard meant that threat and was stubborn, petty, and feral enough to carry it out. “No more leashes,” Geralt agreed, attempting to stave off Jaskier’s generally quite impressive wrath. He turned a glare on the participants in the balloon-ing. “He means it. Don’t piss him off. Last time he got pissed he gouged out a man’s eyes with a spoon and concussed a goat. It was ugly. No more leashes,” the White Wolf demanded. 

Lambert and Yennefer did not look concerned, but they did seem intrigued and somewhat disgusted, which really was a close to a healthy fear of something as either human personification of mischief ever really got, so it would have to do for now. 

“Well, I will make some amends with this then, to save my future dining experiences,” Yennefer declared haughtily, snapping her well manicured fingers. A tiny steamer trunk dropped into being from mid air, falling with a thump onto the bed spread. 

Jaskier scrambled down from Geralt’s hands to throw the lid open. Several tiny, colorful, and well-embroidered doll sized outfits had been folded into the cedar wood trunk, along with the world’s tiniest notebook and charcoal pencils, and best yet, a miniaturized lute.Jaskier actually cried as he embraced the lute and rocked back and forth, murmuring sweet endearments to it.

“I had to buy a real lute and shrink it, the toy ones sounded awful. But thankfully at least one person in this room is a master of their craft,” teased Yenn, inspecting her nails critically to remove any possibility that she had done this because she cared. With a flex of her fingertips, the nail polish changed from crimson to emerald green. Another flick turned them a shimmering gold and blue. 

“I adore you, oh winsome horrible hag,” gasped Jaskier around his tears. Any bystander would have been confused by the genuine tilt of a smile that graced the ethereally beautiful sorceress’s face at the genuine joy exuded by the bardling. Her nails settled into a lovely shade of violet and stayed there. 

“Well on that note, I leave you all to your future idiocies and sobbing. I have an apprentice to collect. We’ll meet you in the usual spot. Ta, darlings,” Yennefer cooed mockingly before immediately disappearing into a portal. 

“You keep weird company, Wolf,”Lambert sighed, twisting and stretching out his back. “And you are part of it,” Geralt teased back, face still solemn and tone still deadpan as he did. So few people took the care to read into his expressions. The two people in the room with him, in addition to Eskel and Vesemir might be the only ones, and all but one of those people were already pack. 

Bard is pack too a grumbling voice deep inside Geralt insisted. It often had these unhelpful little comments or suggestions ready, particularly when it came to Jaskier. It also evidently would benefit from grammar lessons. 

‘Just because idiots will think you are wild animals doesn’t mean you talk like you were raised by them!’ a memory of Vesemir’s reprimand echoed through his skull. He couldn’t tell you how exactly, but the grumbling inner voice seemed to huff in displeasure at the recalled lecture, as though it was being lectured again as well. 

Geralt relayed the plan for getting to Kaer Morhen to his brother and his bard- no, not his bard, the bard. The bard. He ordered a bath and even let Lambert go first since he’d gone longer without one. When his golden eyes fell on Jaskier, he noticed the tiny bardling was standing next to the room’s window, one little hand pressed up against the glass. Even from here, Geralt could see his eyes had gone distant, and his ever talking mouth silently made the shapes of strange words but without sound. 

Before Geralt’s eyes, a snowflake appeared on the outside of the glass, intricate and large as the bard’s torso. It seemed to pulse, once, then twice. Jaskier lifted his hands to it, and it broke apart and disappeared. There was no other sign of snowy weather, Geralt noted when he turned his gaze to the starry sky. In fact, it was a clear fall night. 

Jaskier shook himself, before grinning and turning back to his new song book. He’d demanded to be left alone for a bit to start his composition for Urzsula and her vanished lover. Geralt himself found the notebook and charcoal he’d purchased earlier and made a note. The book was dedicated to figuring out what godsforsaken lesson he needed to learn, but also to catalogue any oddness he noticed that might indicate Jaskier having some kind of adverse or permanent reaction to the unknown magic. 

Muttering at inexplicable snowflakes on a clear night, that definitely made the list. Either way, there was some oddness to be expected wherever Jaskier was involved. For now the witcher made his notes, got ready for his turn in the bath, and began planning for the long journey ahead.


	9. As One Does With Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly I wrote this when I wasn't feeling my best and my thoughts were scattered and hard to pin down. I apologize if it isn't the best, but I really wanted to get it done so I could get ready to move ahead with the next bit. Thank you again dearest readers and commenters, ya'll rock my socks.

“At midnight we ran, cast aside the crowns and laces, snuck out the window hand in hand, wild grins on our faces… I don’t know, what do you think Geralt? I know ‘ran’ doesn’t exactly rhyme with ‘hand’ but I thought it was close enough. Now I am having second thoughts though…” Jaskier mumbled, poking his head out of the dagger sheath. 

His mop of chestnut hair and the top of his lute was all that was visible out of the shealth, and Geralt still took the time to press his finger against the bard’s head to nudge him down out of sight. 

“Be more careful, idiot,” Geralt whispered back, glancing around to see if someone had noticed that he had a tiny human staring out of his dagger sheath. Thankfully everyone seemed to be maintaining a dead-eyed daily miserable countenance and showed no signs of confusion, shock, or intrigue. Excellent. They’d made it to the slightly larger town of Saltzen, almost a city really, famous for its exports of salts and apparently home to a possible siren who’d relocated to fresher waters, a possible wraith or two, and ‘something spooky’ in the nearby woods. 

Lambert went ahead to try to get rooms, harder than usual without Jaskier’s help, while Geralt began gathering a few supplies from the market.Salt obviously was a good thing to pick up here, as it was beneficial for preserving meat as well as for more witchery purposes. Saltzen boasted a wide variety of salts with different grains, added minerals, and so forth. 

Jaskier had all but demanded the purchase of a small hollowed hunk of pink salt crystal meant to be placed partially over a small candle. The older woman working the stall had thrown her thick iron colored curls over one shoulder and given Geralt a gap-toothed grin, promising to bring peace and sooth a troubled mind. 

Jaskier began hopping in the dagger sheath to get the witcher’s attention, and just to keep the bard quiet he’d purchased it. Jaskier had seen similar salt lamps at Oxenfurt. Something about the heated salt crystals encouraging relaxation and healing, perfect for his often injured witcher. Meanwhile Geralt had given in because he hoped it would soothe the worries the bard undoubtedly was bottling up about his reduced size and dramatic lifestyle change. 

They’d also picked up some materials to restock both the sewing kit and first aid kits, including a bunch of new thimbles, a few bottles of booze, and several shiny apples for Roach. Satisfied, Geralt went back to the inn he’d seen Lambert head into earlier. His brother was sitting at a table in the main area, scowling at a tankard of ale and a loaf of decent enough brown bread. 

“We filthy mutant witcher,” Lambert began quite loudly as Geralt approached, “will be sharing the attic. No bath, and we better be gone early tomorrow or else,” the younger witcher spat, giving the innkeeper a deadly glare. Geralt merely shrugged, asked Lambert to order another ale and meet them in the attic before Jaskier began whining about being sweaty in the leather. 

The attic room was certainly not the best they’d had, essentially a pile of straw on the floor with a sheet over it, no fireplace, not a table or a desk in sight. There was a pitcher of water and a large somewhat cracked bowl on the windowsill, which was something. 

“What a shit hole!” Jaskier muttered, upon being shaken out of the sheath and deposited on the window sill for safe keeping. “Better an attic shit hole than another night in the woods though,” Lambert called as he elbowed open the door. “I hate worrying that an ambitious squirrel is going to carry you off for dinner, smallfry.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and made grabby hands for a hunk of brown bread. 

Lambert claimed to be a coldhearted bastard, yet he immediately stopped and tore off a bit of bread for Jaskier, scooped him a thimble of ale, and then tore off a second bit of bread to set beside the bard, before even sitting down of having any for himself. Geralt bit back the urge to comment on how attached to the bard his younger brother had gotten, and the careful consideration Lambert showed Jaskier that he showed no other living soul, not even himself. 

Of course, if Geralt pointed out these good qualities, Lambert would set a barn on fire and stab Geralt (admittedly a light stab) just to be contrary. He might not be a coldhearted bastard, but he was still a proud self-proclaimed master at bastardy. 

Geralt flopped onto the low bed, deliberately sticking his boots on Lambert’s lap, as one does with brothers, before stealing a sip of his ale. “Right, so I vote we separate, one takes the siren, the other the wraiths, and then together for the vaguely spooky thing in the woods,” Geralt grumbled, staring up at the wood beam ceiling. There were cobwebs all along the beams, which meant spiders. Hopefully small enough spiders that he didn’t need to worry about Jaskier potentially serving as dinner to the arachnids. 

Gods, the things one has to worry about with a shrunken bard. 

“Fair enough. It’s still early enough in the day to get it all done before dawn. Then screw the fat sod downstairs, I will nap gods damn it or there will be bloodshed,” Lambert huffed, snapping the bread in two and dragging his tongue across both halves before tossing one at Geralt’s face, as one does with brothers. 

Everyone settled into a bit of quiet as they ate, before Jaskier began playing his minituraized lute and running through the worst and bawdiest of his drinking songs. All in all, a pleasant .mid morning rest. Perhaps things were looking up. 

The Witchers, to Jaskier’s endless amusement, played their own version of Rock-Paper-Scissors (this being Bomb-Sword-Sign) to determine who got what for the first part of their hunt. Apparently, Bomb beats Sword, so Lambert got the wraiths, and Geralt got the siren, to the white haired witcher’s evident disapproval. 

Both Witchers shared an equal amount of unhappiness at leaving the tiny bard alone in this lackluster inn room for a full day. Anything could happen. Hungry spiders could descend, the bard could fall or get stuck somewhere, someone could come in here and find him, the list was endless. 

“Right, well, off you go worrywart Witchers,” Jaskier declared, seemingly reading Geralt and Lambert’s minds. Tiny hands fisted on his hips. “Go on, before you talk yourselves out of it. I’ll play nice, won’t leave the room. I’ve still got to work on Urzsula’s song, and perhaps a ballad about the joy of … little things.”

Geralt would deny till his dying day that he snorted at that. Lambert would happily testify to the fact he had until Lambert’s dying day. 

Left with no other options, the witchers left, locking the door behind them and with a nod went off in the separate ways. Geralt had to head down for the river, already dreading the long wrestling match in the silt and water. He had one ear already stuffed with wax to block the siren song when a young woman deliberately bumped into him. She wore a thick dark brown traveller’s cloaks with the hood up to shadow her face, which was angular and sharp in feature. Her eyes shone too bright, glittering emeralds that pierce Geralt and held him in place. 

“A warning for you, White Wolf. The specter speaks true.The lesson’s not yet learned, and what you need most will be lost. Old enemies wear new faces, and the wicked may turn. There’s value in the water,” hissed the strange woman, leaving Geralt dazed enough that he didn’t notice her departure. 

He gave his head a shake, his long white hair flopping against his shoulders as a reminder to tie it up before the battle with the siren, and he shoved the last bit of wax in his free ear. “Well that was odd,” he thought to himself as the riverbank came into sight and he slid his silver sword free. 

‘Ours is in trouble. Go back to our mate. Now,” snarled the dark animalistic voice that Geralt so often repressed. He shook his head again as though to dislodge the part of him, undoubtedly forged and shaped by the trials, that acted so inhumanly.’Shut it, the bard’s fine,’ he internally snapped back. There was no time for distraction, he thought at the sight of a splashed down river. 

Geralt would come to regret his nonchalance. They all would.


	10. Hunting Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finds a disturbing scene and picks up a side quest. Jaskier is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Depictions of a siren who has been tortured and her scales, hair, etc taken while she was alive and depiction of the siren's death. 
> 
> This is a sad one. And rather introspective on Geralt's part.
> 
> Fear the wolf.

Sirens were tricky. Frankly, Geralt despised killing them as it always turned into a long drawn-out fight in the mud and water. Not to mention there was always something distasteful about killing something sentient. And sirens were obnoxiously sentient. 

The river was slow moving and wide, with what looked like a shallow cave system up river perfect for the siren to use for a den. There was dense forest surrounding the river on both banks, blocking most of the sun and much of the sound from the village nearby. Geralt unsheathed his silver sword, and felt for the loose silver netting bound up at his waist. Best thing would be to surprise the siren, net her, draw her onto the shore, and strike true. It was a relatively painless death and one that got him back to his idiot bard fastest as well. 

He wasn’t overly concerned by the random green-eyed fortuneteller and refused to be ruled by the snarling animal voice that demanded they return to the inn. Still even full sized the bard has a gift for getting into trouble. 

The awful stench of blood filled his nose the closer Geralt got to the cave system, but it did not smell like human blood. Siren blood. Geralt hurried closer with greater speed, wondering what the hell lived around here that could damage a siren badly enough that it has spilled almost all of its life blood onto the dark grey and brown porous stone and into the river’s darkened waters. 

The siren was sprawled limply at the mouth of the cave, the tip of her tail inches from the water, and missing chunks of flesh and most of her scales. The chunks were surgically removed, and the scales appeared to have been scrapped off like the descaling of a fish for dinner. 

Her wings were gone, cleanly cut off and taken, her hair cut and spirited away as well. Thin bleeding wrists were bound in silver chains to the rock below with heavy spiked manacles, with a spiked silver collar around her throat. Two slashing wounds to her sternum continued to bleed sluggishly, seemingly the main source of the crimson blood pooling below her lithe form and dripping down into the sanctuary of the slow waters.

‘Torture,’ Geralt thought, with rage simmering under his skin. She’d been deliberately positioned so close to the safety of the water but just far enough that she couldn’t reach it. She’d been harvested, alive to feel her pieces and parts being stolen with knives and hooks. 

Geralt had been sent to kill her, to prevent her taking more victims from the town. And he’d had every intention of killing her. But there was no reason for torture, for this long slow death in pain and agony. He took a long deep breath, drawing in all the scents in the cave. He forced himself to ignore the scent of the siren, of the blood, focusing on the three other scents. Humans. Mages. Well, one older mage strong in magic, two less confident and likely younger. He could also smell how much the older, stronger mage had enjoyed the siren’s suffering. 

He would remember these scents. And while he would not actively hunt them, if he ever caught these scents again there would be bloodshed. “I will end your suffering, and if I find those who did this, they will join you in the afterlife,” he said softly as he could manage to the siren, who did not even tense or cry out at the sight of a witcher brandishing a silver blade. 

“Do...it…” she demanded, snapping her tail with whatever energy and defiance remained. “What is your name?” he asked quietly. She looked up and met his gold gaze confidently, even with agonized tears dripping from her angular cheeks. “My sisters.... called me Lyssia.I came...up river...to check on...my niece. Niece half human. Lives in ... village. Please check...on her. Danger.” hissed Lyssia, slapping her tail again. She reached out with her talons and pressed an amulet on a gold chain. 

“Protect...Kalina, Witcher.”

A gasp left the siren, blood dribbling from the raw cracked corners of her mouth. Geralt gave a nod, and down swung the sword. He carefully pocketed the charm, and claimed some of the forgotten broken scattered scales. He would not take her head. She’d suffered enough. He’d bury her under the trees and head back to the village. 

Geralt had a funny feeling that the strange green eyed woman had something to do to this. He’d determine if she was Kalina, give her the protective amulet, and be on his way. For it was a protective amulet, he recognized a few of the sigils delicately carved into the pieces of chain which ended in a shell made of glittering amber. 

It was a painful reminder that Ciri was so far away, so out of his protective reach. It had taken him too long to claim his child surprise, allowed them both to suffer, and now that they had found one and other it was a struggle to let her go. But Yenn needed time to focus exclusively on her magic and connection to chaos. Ciri needed this. Geralt would have to deal.

He let his thoughts of Ciri distract him as he buried the siren, took the scales to the alderman and got most of his promised payment. He made it to the inn around the same time as a muck-covered grumbling Lambert who had also been shorted on pay. 

“Was just two wraiths but fuckin’ angry ones. Threw me all over the damned cemetery. How was the siren?” Lambert muttered as they began to climb the stairs. “She was already mostly dead. Some sick fuck had tied her down and harvested her, left her barely alive right next to the water,” Geralt rumbled. Lambert swore creatively, wiping a bit of dried dirt off his eyebrow as he shouldered open the door to their room.

Silence descended on the duo, slow beating Witcher hearts pounding like mad horses in their chests as adrenaline splashed and tumbled through their veins. Thunder rolled and roared somewhere behind their temples. 

The room was destroyed, belongings scattered all over the room. There were magical scorch marks on the ceiling beams and on the walls. The smell of fear, terror, pain, desperation, and anxiety clouded the air. Worse still was that all of it belonged to Jaskier. 

Additional scents, painfully familiar, touched the edges of his senses. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Lambert snarled and turned, punching his fists through the walls. “It’s the ones who tortured the siren, they took him,” Geralt rumbled, fighting through the panic. “Met a fortuneteller, she said I’d lose something,” he added weakly. 

Lambert dug his fist out the wall, inhaling and filling his lungs with scent. His eyes burned through the dirt on his face, brighter than the forge fires Lambert was found over in the winter. “Let’s go hunting, brother,” the young wolf snarled, teeth a touch too sharp and his voice more howl than voice. Everything about him promised death.

Geralt nodded, tipping back his throat and howling to the sky. Let their prey hear. Let them know the wolves were hunting. Let them know they were coming. 

“We hunt.”


	11. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The witchers and a new friend set about saving the bard, but they end up with more questions than answers and three dead bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ya'll. It's been a rough while. But we're back and it's a nice long chapter. Some warnings for graphic depiction of violence and graphic violent threats. 
> 
> You rock my socks.

Geralt and Lambert stormed out of the inn, ignoring the blusterings of the innkeeper. They let the air into their lungs, parsing the individual scents and seeking the awful stench of rotten fish, metal shavings, and old rum. Their prey. 

They’d make it fairly deep into the woods when they noticed another figure waiting for them.”You!” snarled Geralt, stalking forward before she could speak, grabbing a fist full of her thick traveler’s cloak. “You knew they’d take my bard! How!?! Are you working with them, the ones who tortured Lyssia the Siren?” he roared, lifting her off her feet, even as she thrashed and kicked out. 

“Of course not! Lyssia was my family!” the emerald-eyed woman snapped, and Geralt slowly let her back down. She tore herself away and took several shaky steps back, eyeing the witchers nervously. 

“Some mage figured out who I was, what I was, and was stalking me. I sent a call to my aunt asking for help and she said to meet her here. I went to meet her in our usual spot by the river, but noticed the mage’s aura and ran off.” Her resolve and anger crumbled for a moment. “Is she dead then, my aunt?” the young woman whispered, thin delicate fingers curling into fists. 

Geralt nodded. “I gave her a merciful death after the torture she was put through.” The woman winced, grasping at the sleeves of the cloak. “She asked me to check on you, and give you this,” Geralt added in a softer voice, still too close to a growl. His bard was still missing after all. He fished out the necklace and tossed it gently to her. 

“Said to give it to her niece Kalina. I’m assuming that’s you.” Kalina nodded, lifting the amulet up to brush it reverently up to her cheek. A few tears dripped down onto the amber shaped shell. “It’s our family’s oldest relic. The strongest, most ancient protection charm. I can’t believe she’d give it to me. A halfbreed.” 

“Touching, very nice, love the feelings shit, but our bard is gone and we need him back,” Lambert snapped. Kalina dropped her necklace around her shoulders. “I know, that’s why I’m here,” she coughed, roughing rubbing at her eyes. “I know where they are staying. I want to help you get them, and get revenge for my aunt.”

Geralt glanced at Lambert, who shrugged. “Fine, fine, let’s get going then! Gods knows what those sick fucks are doing to Jaskier while we waste time chit-chatting!” he gestured broadly in the direction of the woods. Kalina nodded, drawing her hood back up. Between one moment and the next twin daggers filled her palms, humming with a soft kind of magic that reminded both witchers of the lapping motion of waves on the shore. 

“Follow me!”

The three dashed through the woods faster than any standard human could. Jumped up and off the trunks of trees, on top of and over boulders. Ran through creeks, fast enough that by the time the water splashed they were already several feet away. 

Kalina did not hesitate, running straight like an arrow, and offered not another word. It was for the best, since all Geralt and Lambert could think of was Jaskier and whatever was being done to him by his captors. 

They slowed at the sight of a crumbled old manor home, reeking of mages and potion work. There was a faint hum of a protective shield around the building and the crackle of someone actively utilizing Chaos. 

“I can bring down the shield if I scream,” Kalina whispered as they hid behind a sizable boulder. “But obviously that’ll blow the element of surprise.” Lambert shrugged.”Honestly doesn’t matter. The minute the shield goes down they’ll know somethings up. Might as well hit them with a big bang and shake ‘em loose while we are at it.” 

Geralt eyed a far window, light pouring from it. “Smart money is that room has Jaskier in it, or at least someone we need to find him. Make our way there. Move fast, hit hard. We don’t know what they’re packing or how many of them there are.” 

“As far as I know, they’re decently strong mages collecting some kind of supernatural shopping list for a client.Didn’t catch the name of the client, but I heard some of their list when I was following them yesterday. Phoenix blood and tail feathers, Bruxa fang, Doppler’s fingers, the tongue of an elf, crazy stuff,” Kalina offered. “I don’t know why they took your bard, but it can’t be for anything good.”

Geralt tried to bite back the snarl and it came out as a rumble that filled his chest and into the air. “Oh! And he got shrunk. So you know, be mindful of that. Looks like a doll, cussed like a drunken sailor, will stab if provoked. Sometimes also if not provoked,” Lambert added. 

Kalina to her credit, blinked in surprise and was silent a moment before shrugging. “I feel unqualified to judge. I’m a half-elf half-siren prophetess married to a runaway dryad. Weird is relative. Okay, you plug your ears and stand behind me. The amulet doubles as an amplifier. A good long scream should shatter it, but you;ll have to go ahead without me. I’m gonna need a minute but I won’t be far behind you.”

The witchers nodded and with ears blocked and swords drawn they took up position. Kalina’s eyes glowed bright enough to cast shadows as she lifted the amber shell and kissed it once. “For Aunt Lyssia, I call on the darkness of the deepest sea, the forgotten grottos, the space and sands untouched by light.”

When she opened her mouth again, her teeth seemed sharper than before. And then came the scream. It ripped out of her throat and was made visible by the rush of air moving far faster and more violently than the surrounding emptiness. It hit an invisible wall head on,and the Witcher took a prowling step forward in anticipation as the wall shuddered and crashed open. 

That was not the end of the scream though, it pushed forward, unencumbered, and slammed into the crumbling ruins. The entire structure shook wildly, large chunks of stone wall and ceiling flying apart and scattering on the ground below, accompanied by the startled screams of the occupants of the building. Two figures had been flung out of the suddenly created ‘windows’ in what had once been solid stone walls and slumped on the dirt below. 

Hot coppery blood pooled about them, gushing from their ears and eyes as their dying screams joined the cacophony of the siren’s wrath and grief. As suddenly as it had begun, the scream ended and left the world in a shocked silence. Kalina slumped back toward the boulder, flapping a han dismissively at both wolf witchers who launched forward. 

Lambert paused to check on the people tossed from the building.They were certainly dead, brains all but pouring out their ruined ears. He noted they wore the types of robes mages favored, but with no distinguishing features, crests, or sigils. Likely mages in training then, meaning the master was the one who remained in the building. He plifered their pockets, incase they had something interesting.

Then of course he noticed the smell of Jaskier on them, their hands specifically. Blood, fear, defiance, pain. And cedar. He made sure to stab the corpses twice, just because, before running toward the ruins themselves. Well they were definitely ruins now if they hadn’t been before. Maybe they could partner up with Kalina and start a home demolition service. 

‘Witchers and Siren Unlimited. Happily destroying your shit at a reasonable cost. Property damage at its finest and most extreme. Will even kill spiders.’

Well, maybe not spiders. Even a witcher has limits. 

He made his way up a cracking marble staircase towards the sounds of grunting and fighting, ignoring the fight between his brother and the mage for a moment and putting his nose to good use. He sneered at the vitals of Jaskier’s blood lined up on the table besides a series of powders and tubes, smashing them with a leather gloved fist before continuing his hunt.

The scent of the bard was very strong in the big room, which apparently doubled as a storage room for creepy magical ingredients and lab equipment. Too many smells, too much rot and dust and chaos and blood. Fuck, okay, some regrets about smashing the vitals. He just hadn’t wanted the sickos to get whatever it is they wanted from the bard. In fact, once they had the bard and the mage’s severed head, he’d like to burn the whole place down with a nice Igni. Pity Eskel wasn’t here, man could breathe fire like a dragon with his signs. 

Oooh but Lambert DID have some left over bombs, his own personal specialty. Yep, okay, that was on the agenda, but first the bard. Geralt asked Aard and suddenly Lambert had a lap full of overly dressed mage, one with frankly absurd facial hair. 

Seriously the meticulous maintenance of something that stupidly intricate would be ridiculous. But back to task. “Fuck off,” Lambert snarled, Aarding the asshole right back to Geralt, who caught said asshole by the throat and slammed him to the wall, keeping the mage’s boots a considerable distance between them and the floor. 

Silver tipped blade kissed the sweaty vulnerable skin of the mage’s neck. “Who are you, and where the FUCK is my bard?” Geralt growled. The mage tried to call upon his chaos, but he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs to even breathe properly.

Light from the window caught on something shiny and upturned from the brawling. A tiny gilded birdcage had been thrown to the floor in the fighting, dented slightly but humming with magic. Inside was the unconscious and too pale bardling, stripped of his fancy clothes. 

“Fuck yeah! Got ‘im Geralt!” Lambert howled triumphantly with the cage held aloft. Geralt dropped the mage and rushed over, helping to pry the bars apart. Magic made his fingers tingle and left a metallic taste in his mouth, but the witcher pressed on until he could fist his fist inside and gingerly scoop Jaskier out. 

Nearby on the floor lay more vitals, tiny syringes, and tubing. Lambert stopped them to dust on principal. “They took too much blood, we gotta call the witch,” Lambert demanded, casting about for anything that lent itself to summoning. 

Geralt was far too preoccupied cooing to the heavily injured bardling cupped in his palms. “We got you Jask, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. We got you and you are safe, you are safe and we are gonna get you better and nothing like this will ever happen again.”

Lambert ripped open a cupboard and nearly gagged at the sight and smell. Chunks of siren and siren scales filled clear jars. “Oh you disturbed gnome-licking, ass-talking, dickless, spineless, brain-less, balls-less, centaur fucking mother, father, grandmother and uncle FUCKERS,” Lambert snarled, storming over to the gasping mage in his stupid silken robes. 

“You think I don’t recognize this shit! This dark magic bullshit! All the parts you fuckers have collected came from being when they were alive, when they were in pain. You think I can’t still smell their agony? I’m gonna let you see how this feels, haul your hairy ass outside and rip your godsdamned spine out your godsamned throat with my godsdamned teeth and shove it back up your asshole!” 

It should be mentioned, as a trainee, many of the teachers and mages had delighted in a little extra pain, a little extra suffering, for the stubborn little boy that had been dragged up the mountain as a Child Surprise. They liked when they hurt enough to make him cry, and it took so much hurt to make him cry, even as a child. They called the smell of his pain ‘delicious’. It had left Lambert with scars and issues galore, a bit of a ‘thing’ about people torturing others needlessly and enjoying it.

Because the asshole on the floor re-learning how to breathe had certainly enjoyed it. 

“Not scared of you...Witcher,” Facial Hair gasped out, hands on his ribs. “My client...much more powerful. He has such...such big plans. For witchers. And for the bard. Told us...look for the Butcher and ...you’d find the bard. Luck he’s so small now. Nice...nice and breakable!” Facial Hair cackled. 

Jaskier made a sleepy silent whimper of pain, and Lambert turned his attention away from his prey for just a moment, just long enough for him to jump to his feet, hands glowing a sickly orange. Before Lambert could turn back to meet the threat, something body checked the mage into the wall. 

He let out a howl of pain and twin daggers stabbed straight through his shoulders and mounted him like a prize deer head on the wall. Kalina stepped back with a nod, surveying the witchers and the scene before her. She’d lost the cloak, revealing an emerald gown to match her eyes. More impressive where the scales that broke through her tanned skin in flashes of gold and blue and green.

“Speak your name,” she commanded, eyes glowing once more, one hand clasped to the amber necklace.The mage shuddered and shivered, eyes going dull. “Maximus…” Facial Hair whispered.”What is your purpose?” she demanded again. “To...provide the client with ingredients for his spell. And kill the bard once we have his blood.”

Kalina’s gaze worriedly turned to Geralt who nodded calmly, the bard still lived.”And who is your client?” she commanded, hair whipping about her face as Maximus fought back against the compulsion. His eyes rolled back in his head, gibberish coming out between his lips as a sudden ring of light formed around his throat and suffocated him. 

Kalina hissed a curse and wrenched free her knives. “Spell against revealing someone’s identity,” she muttered in annoyance, kicking Maximus in the head for good measure. “I say we set this place on fire and get your bard to my wife. She should be able to check him up and heal what needs healing.” 

Lambert grinned. “You guys are gonna LOVE my new bombs.”


	12. Mulberry Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As our heroes boldly journey to Kalina's wife to ask for aid, she shares the story of her parents unusual marriage and how she fell in love with her dryad wife. Questions continue to be raised about Jaskier and his humanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again my dears. This chapter we get to learn Kalina's story. Warnings for discussion of violent death and magic induced death. Still I quite like her character and I didn't really intend to make her a legit charater but she was very demanding while I ws writing. I also don't want her dryad wife to beat me up. 
> 
> The dryad is named Moreai and she is connected to mulberry trees. Her name and tree was taken from research on Greek dryad myths. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Your wonderful comments feed my soul, and I appreciate you all for reading. 
> 
> Stay safe!

The blast of Lambert’s bombs seemed to rock the very bedrock of the area, as with a wink and a deliberately greasy smile, the witcher utilized his best used wagon salesman voice to introduce his newest bombs before throwing them.

“This baby right here is an Angel bomb. The name comes from the fact anyone or thing you throw it at has exactly long enough to say ‘Oh Melitele!’ before becoming an actual angel. Packs a punch and finishes with some light sparkling, oooh watch ‘er shine!” Lambert crowed before tossing it behind him into the ‘ingredients room’ and igniting it with an Igni. 

The room exploded in blue flames, Lambert grinning wildly as he ran out behind his brother and Kalina. “Did I mention the fire?” he hollered gleefully. “Because there’s also lots of fire!” 

The others cleared the main floor and he paused to collect another bomb from his supply. Stopping in the area that had once held a main door, reduced to splinters after Kalina’s scream and Geralt’s shoulder. “This beauty is called the Stick and Burn!” he shouted, tossing it into the middle of the room, and with a shrug, adding three or four more of them before casting Igni and diving for the safety of the clearing outside. 

There was a moment of silence, in which improved ears could hear a crack and an oozing. Unusual as the typical bomb did not ooze. Then came the spark and… “Ignition, baby!” Lambert proclaimed, as the entire manor exploded violently into spare bits of rubble and charred splinters. No structure was still standing.

Thankfully Geralt, with Jaskier in the dagger sheath again, Kalina who had better self preservation instincts than the three of them combined, and a fast Lambert made it to the safety of the thick trees and avoided being crushed by debris. 

“Well, you're damned through,” Kalina muttered with a reluctant half smile. “The Stick and Burn is excellent for the total demolition of structures. It oozes a large amount of highly flammable goo which coats the area and then when the fuse burns down it ignites and explodes with detrimental force,” Lambert said softly and lovingly, the way a new parent might describe their child. 

“Why are you only eloquent when it comes to explosives?” Geralt grumbed, checking on Jaskier. “Because explosions are my poetry,” Lambert informed his brother indignantly. Kalina rolled her eyes and readjusted the cloak back into place. “C’mon witchers, let’s go see my wife and see if she can take a look at you and the bard,” she sighed, walking right into the thickest part of the woods. 

The group wandered toward their destination, and unlike his taciturn brother, Lambert felt the desire to talk and fill the silence welling up, making him miss the easy conversation of the bard. “So, how’d you meet your wife?” he inquired, glancing around at the trees and lush undergrowth. 

“Moreai and I… well we have a lot in common. For me, I had parents who loved each other but when people realized my father loved a siren, they ‘cleansed him’ of the evil magic that had taken his sanity. They burned him to death on the beach in view of the ocean when he wouldn’t recant his love for my mother,” Kalina said softly. 

“Simon. I think his name was Simon. And he owned a bookshop and wrote stories. He had little round glasses and brown hair, and a loud ridiculous laugh. He’d seen my mother caught in a fisherman's net and left to dry out and die. He freed her with his letter opener and carried her to the water. The villagers beat him badly when they found out.” Kalina touched the amber amulet, smiling even as she clambered up a tricky boulder.

“That’s where Mom found him, bloody and gasping for air beside the shallows that night. She used her magic to heal him, but he always had a scar running through his eyebrow I remember. They spoke and agreed to meet in a nearby cove the next night. Mom wanted adventure and stories, and Dad definitely had the stories. He would bring books to read to her of every subject from science to poetry and they’d talk.”

Lambert felt himself somewhat warmed by the story, like a secondhand enjoyment of those hidden story nights. He nearly tripped over a root before shaking his head. Witchers, especially aggressive loudmouths like him, did not get warm moments. 

“They fell in love like that. They married, in a hidden way, and they had me. I was half human so I couldn’t live fully in the water or on the land. Sometimes I was in the sea with my mother and her tribe, and other times I stayed on land and learned with my father. People got suspicious, and as a child I was not good at hiding my otherness. It didn’t help that I was cursed to speak prophecy,” Kalina added ruefully, glancing at the sky as if in reprimand for the added responsibility. 

“Dad claimed it was his family line that had carried through. Certain family members of his would get...kind of gut feelings, that usually turned out right. The magic from my mother likely amplified it. So a scaly kid that speaks in prophecy kinda stood out. My father was chased from his home and threw me into the surf. Mom collected me, and left me with her tribe. She wouldn’t let me watch what they did to my father,” Kalina paused there, eyes gone distant. 

“She watched though. She stayed to witness it, lifted her head above the water and met his eyes. She sang to him as he died, something soft that echoed down into the water. And when he was dead, my mother and her tribe came up and sang a terrible song. A song of war and vengeance. Everyone in that village destroyed themselves under the influence of that song.”

Lambert stopped as well, glancing at Geralt. They were both thinking of the pogrom, of the destruction of their school and death of their brothers. It wasn’t hard to imagine that if they had possessed that kind of power then that they would have used it to force the invaders to destroy themselves. Grief could make a person do terrible things. 

“I stayed with the tribe as long as I could, but I needed time on land and that made us a target. I lost my mother that way. She was caught bringing me to shore, and she was killed. Her tribe stole her body back and gave her proper mourning, but it was clear I couldn’t stay. My aunt brought me up river to fresh water and left me here. She would visit when she could, but I was mostly alone. I was lucky a local druid woman took me in and apprenticed me. It was through her that I met my Moreai.” 

The sorrow left Kalina’s scent and voice as they began to walk again. Lambert was deeply moved by the story, but wondered if he’d opened some old wounds accidentally in his thirst for conversation to kill the silence. 

“Moreai is a mulberry tree dryad. Mulberry trees have aggressive roots, so she was always being chased away by other dryads. Too dangerous to be around, her trees might smother everyone else’s. Unwanted and dangerous, she’d settled in the woods here and allowed her trees to grow. My mentor Helena sent me to collect some of the mulberry fruit, and for me it was love at first sight.”

The warm feeling was back, coating Lambert and even the ever reluctant to emotionally engage Geralt in something pleasant and lovely. Kalina’s adoration of her wife was seeped heavily into her voice and her scent took on a smell of warm vanilla and sugar.

“We courted each other, but in our own cultures ways. The result was that we confused the hell out of each other for a few years before Helena had enough, knocked our heads together and told us that the coming full moon would be the ideal time for our wedding ceremony. We did wed that full moon, had a ceremony led by my mentor and we added all our traditions together. It was a beautiful night.”

The group finally found itself in front of a sizable stone cottage with a neatly thatched roof and smoke curling up from the chimney. Mulberry trees surrounded the cottage, with their purple fruit ripe and fresh as it hung between verdant leaves. The front door slammed open and the dryad ran out and nearly knocked Kalina to the ground with her embrace.

The witchers took a moment to observe the mulberry dryad. Her skin was smooth and young, the color of dark wood and rich earth. She was broad shouldered and strong, taller than Kalina, and wore a long tunic of silk the color of mulberries and even darker leggings. Gold bangles clinked on her wrists and ankles, and there were delicate gold arm bands on both of her upper arms. Her hair was wild and dark tight curls, and woven within the strands were shining green leaves and permanently perfect mulberry fruits. 

“Gods, Kalina I was so worried about you!” the dryad snarled, hugging her wife closer. “I know, I’m sorry,” Kalina apologized, pressing caste kisses to the dryad’s face. She drew back a moment to touch the amulet at her throat. “Mages, they killed Aunt Lyssia. The mages took her parts while she was still alive, and the witcher Geralt mercy killed her. The same mages kidnapped their already cursed bard and did gods know what to him. Can you help?” Kalina pleaded, cupping her palm to Moreai’s cheek. Moreai pressed her forehead to Kalina’s, trying to give wordless comfort. “You know that I will,” she reassured softly, before helping ehr wife up and dusting off as she eyed the witchers. 

“Alright, in the house you get. Where’s the bard?” Moreai said firmly as she shepherded everyone inside. She led them to a workshop of sorts, a space with a low table and jars and vials of herbs and healing tonics all about. Drying plants also hung from the ceiling, and their fresh and dried counterparts were set about most of the counters. 

Geralt offered no words, but gently as possible shook the bard out of the sheath and into the palm of his hand. Moreai leaned close and eyed the tiny damaged musician. “Well shit,” she offered conversationally. “That’s unusual. You know what shrunk him?” she asked, motioning for Geralt to put Jaskier on the table. She even laid out a handkerchief so he’d be warmer. 

“Unusual specter thought this would teach me a lesson and lead me to happiness. Still not sure what the lesson is,” Geralt offered, eyes fixed firmly on Jaskier. Moreai shrugged and placed her finger tip on the bard’s chest delicately. 

The room filled with magic, but this was soft and gentle like a warm breeze in spring, not crackling and violent like chaos. This earth magic soothed nerves instead of making the back of the witchers’ necks prickle in warning. 

Moreai hummed, nodding to herself. “He’s lost a lot of blood. They damaged his ribs and his leg but we can fix that up. They put a tracking spell on him which will need to come off. They wanted to test something about him, but I can’t tell exactly what,” Moreai offered, moving away from the table and gathering up supplies. 

“His...tininess makes things difficult. I’ll need to call in a friend for help,” she turned a hard eye on the witchers. ‘He’s good people, so I don’t want you giving him any trouble on account of what he is, am I clear?” her grey stone colored eyes cut through them and demanded truth. 

“Aye, no trouble from us,” Lambert agreed in a subdued manner and Geralt nodded. Seemingly satisfied, the dryad went to the window and opened it, whistling a few sharp notes and setting a tiny porcelain plate of honey and sugar on the window sill. 

Kalina left to get everyone a drink, declaring they’d all earned it, and the witchers and dryad were left to wait in awkward silence. ‘Jaskier would know what to say’, Geralt thought bitterly. ‘But I let him get kidnapped and drained of blood, stupid, stupid Geralt’. At last there was a fluttering of tiny wings and a man smaller than Jaskier appeared to land on the window sill and help himself to the honey and sugar.

He was a tiny delicate looking person dressed in what seemed to be grasses and flower petals. His tiny ears and tiny teeth were pointed, and dragonfly wings fluttered at his back. “Greetings Phillipe,” Moreai offered with a smile.

“Greetings Dryad!” the tiny fae chirped, finishing the offering. “What’s up? You haven’t called me in ages and I’ve been awfully bored,” Phillipe teased. “Our friends here,” Moreai began with a gesture to the witchers, “have a cursed bard who was kidnapped and thrashed soundly. I require your aid in treating him due to… unusual circumstances.”

Phillipe eyed the witchers nervously but was startled into taking a step back when he noticed Jaskier. “Usual is right! Huh..he’s...well. I didn’t expect that. Okay,” he said, flying to rest beside Jaskier. “I’ll play doctor with you Moreai.”

The dryad rolled her eyes and began laying out her supplies, magic and mundane, as Kalina arrived with drinks. Mulberry wine, of course, and a tiny thimble already made up for the tiny fae. The witchers knew there were numerous different types of fae folk, and all of them were dangerous one way or another, but Phillipe and his tiny hands could do what none of the larger people could and for that they were grateful. 

Kalina offered them an encouraging nod, sipping her wine and turning back to admire her wife.They passed the afternoon this way, in a soft companionable silence occasionally broken by spell breaking and healing words, or murmured instructions. 

“It’s a pity we don’t have any snow,” the tiny fae remarked as he tightened the bandages around Jaskier’s ribs. “Though he might actually fare better around flowers,” Phillipe continued thoughtfully and he gazed as Jaskier.

Lambert shot his brother a confused look, but Geralt could only shrug. He had no idea, but he’d add it to the journal.


	13. G.S.M.S.D.U.A.U.F.U.O.E.P.T.R.T.O.P.C.I.H.L.I.A.F.M.R.A.S.L AKA The Mountain Incident Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt watches over Jaskier and reflects on how he treats the bard, the consequences of his actions at the mountain, and what he wants the future to hold. We also get a little more information on the voice in Geralt's head. Warning for description of child abuse by Jaskier's parents when he was a kid. 
> 
> I promise Jaskier will be awake in the next chapter and we will hear a bit more from Philppe. 
> 
> Thank you to my amazing readers and you fabulous commenters who literally made me grin and happy dance. Ya''ll rock. Stay safe out there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt watches over Jaskier and reflects on how he treats the bard, the consequences of his actions at the mountain, and what he wants the future to hold. We also get a little more information on the voice in Geralt's head. Warning for description of child abuse by Jaskier's parents when he was a kid. 
> 
> I promise Jaskier will be awake in the next chapter and we will hear a bit more from Philppe. 
> 
> Thank you to my amazing readers and you fabulous commenters who literally made me grin and happy dance. Ya''ll rock. Stay safe out there.

By the time the full moon has risen in the sky, Jaskier was sleeping in a flower pot curled loosely around the stems of some impressively colored tulips, bandaged and with most of his bodily fluids restored. 

Moreai had gone out to ‘bless and converse with the mulberry trees’ whatever that meant, and Geralt was left keeping silent watch over the bardling with a cup of still mostly full mulled wine loosely held in his hands. 

Jaskier looked much better, had more color to him and his breathing was slow and even in sleep. It had been terrifying, seeing him that pale and cold. His mortality had been well known to Geralt, it had haunted his nightmares for years, but this had made it all painfully real. 

‘Keep mate safe...protect mate’ came the guttural command from the voice within Geralt’s head. In the quiet of this vigil, the White Wolf did not bother to shake his head and push the voice back. It was right afterall, he possessed a deep desire to protect Jaskier. 

The voice was not unfamiliar either. It had begun post mutagens and followed him in quiet, dark moments and the heated heart of battle alike. An inner wolf, Vesemir had described it as a primal magic aspect of him brought to the forefront by the trials. It didn’t speak to him all the time, and rarely spoke about others except his brothers and Vesemir. Then a loudmouth bard in ridiculous clothes had decided to chat up a clearly angry witcher in a shitty bar in Posada. 

Almost immediately the inner wolf had begun referring to Jaskier as their mate. It had never bothered with Yennefer, and though it had mourned Renfri, it hadn’t been nearly as attached as it was to Jaskier in that first moment. And it hadn’t weakened, no the attachment had grown stronger and stronger. It brought with it the desire to provide for the bard, to protect him from harm, to claim him as his own.

Geralt’s desire to fight this savage inner self and the vulnerability relationships and emotions carried with them (combined with some possible insecurity issues) manifested in his harsh treatment of Jaskier throughout their friendship. After the mountain, the wolf had tried to tear Geralt apart from the inside in its incalculable rage at Geralt for tossing aside their precious mate.

It had played havoc with his dreams, roaring across his subconscious till he found himself tracking Jaskier down like particularly slippery prey and despite the feeling of indigestion that discussing emotions gave him, Geralt had apologized and taken full blame. Jaskier as usual had been too quick to forgive the Witcher, and had resumed their travels.

The rejection and separation had taken a toll on the bard though that became more obvious as time went by. He slept fitfully and with a dagger in his hand, whereas once he would have been snoring peacefully the whole night long. He drank more often and drank harder liquor than his usual ales and wines. He was far more careful with money, and practically hoarded food. He was hesitant to speak too often or to sing in front of Geralt. 

Slowly the story of his time alone came out bit by bit. Jaskier harassed by drunkards who couldn’t take no for an answer and deliberately misunderstood what a travelling bard did for a living. Robbers and muggings that left Jaskier stitching himself in shitty inns. Days where he couldn’t afford meals, which left him eating whatever he could forage in the wilderness or cast away scraps of food off others’ plates. 

Not to mention the horrible emotionally neglectful and physically abusive childhood Jaskier had fled, full of people disparaging his ideas, his music, him as a person, and how Geralt’s actions on the mountain had seemingly validated everything his parents had said. That Jaskier was a waste of space, better seen and not heard, a lifelong disappointment. 

“Do you know,” Jaskier had whispered to Geralt as ocean eyes fixed on the flickering campfire before them, “Once I asked too many questions at a party, questions about why people with mixed blood were treated so poorly. So my mother made me stand outside in the snow the rest of the night. It was a blessing in disguise. Because after the party ended she sewed my lips shut with a sewing needle. Made the maids hold me still and kept the stitches in for a full day afterwards.” 

Geralt had nearly vomited at the sight of sewing needles for nearly a month after that story. And Geralt had so few words of comfort to give, so he’d matched each story Jaskier told with one of his own. Good stories, few though they were, and bad stories of which there were too many. This time of renewal of their friendship began with more open communication than they’d had in the more than twenty years preceding it. 

The inner wolf had howled its delight that Jaskier was within reach once more, even as he pushed Geralt to touch more, to touch more romantically. To make their romantic desires clear to the bard, as the wolf was painfully certain their feelings would be reciprocated. 

Geralt had continued to rebuff the wolf’s suggestions, but now alone in the dark Geralt could admit he wanted it. He wanted the sweet words from Jaskier’s lips, he wanted to kiss the other man and more than once, wanted to claim and hold him, to mark him and let the world see he was lucky enough to have Jaskier as a mate. He wanted Jaskier to be the last thing he saw at night and the first thing he saw in the morning. 

Maybe if he could solve this curse and have Jaskier full sized, then he could say these things. Or at least grunt out half the words, make complicated hand gestures and hope Jaskier’s self-proclaimed fluency in Geralt-ese allowed the bard to understand. 

The moonlight caught on Jaskier as he shifted atop of the soil in the flower pot. It looked lonely sitting there on the low table meant for healing. And Jaskier looked just a little bit magical sitting there amid the tulips. 

“I won’t run away anymore Jaskier,” Geralt promised with a whisper. He sensed Lambert in the hallway behind him, also nervous and awake on this otherwise peacefully night. “Bout fuckin’ time,” Lambert muttered, nudging Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt wordlessly handed Lambert the mulled wine, and the shorter witcher happily polished it off in a few gulps. 

“Gods damn it Geralt, you sure know how to keep things interesting,” Lambert chuckled before turning to head back into their guest room for more meditation. Geralt sighed and shook his head, turning back to admire Jaskier. What could he say, he had a type: chaotic, free spirited, and defiant. And well...beautiful. Jaskier huffed out a sleepy call of “G’r’lt” which Geralt guessed was his name, before exhaling and resuming the sweet snoring that Geralt had missed in their time apart. 

It was a good night.


	14. Squirrel Fights and Snow Flakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier wakes up and the group gets ready to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I am so sorry. I've been crazy with work and a terrible bout of crippling anxiety. But I really wanted to move the story along, so it might not be my best work but I hope you enjoy it! Next chapter or so we get to meet Eskel! And then the journey to Kaer Morhen can really get into swing! 
> 
> Be safe and take good care of yourselves my dear readers! You mean the world to me!

After a breakfast of warm pastries and mulberry jam (both witchers were already a bit sick of the recurring dependence on mulberries, but both were smart enough to realize mentioning it to their hosts would result in a painful death and swift burial under said trees) and fruit juice, the smaller fairy from the day before returned to help Moreai check Jaskier’s injuries and change the bandages. 

Kalina eyed the tulips, which also seemed healthier and brighter as compared to the day before, with some surprise. “What, is the bard made of nitrogen or something?” the half siren murmured as she settled atop the wooden counter otherwise sprawled with ingredients and potions. “We all are, dear, more or less. People make good plant food,” Moreai chirped absently. 

Lambert and Geralt exchanged a look - definitely no complaining about the mulberry themed menu. 

“He’s human,” Geralt grunted. “Human but cursed.” The little fairy rolled his eyes “Mostly anyway,” Philippe muttered, flying towards the window sill and settling there. “What do you mean ‘mostly’?” Lambert drawled, folding his arms. Philippe opened his mouth but immediately fell silent. A single intricate and immaculate snowflake floated downward with no wind to direct it, passing Philippe (who began to reek of fear and had gone a particularly bloodless shade of pale) and hovering meaningfully over Jaskier and the tulips. 

In an instant the tulips froze like the first winter’s frost had barrelled through and turned rotted and brown, crinkling to dust. Jaskier woke with a jerk and a gasp, glowing faintly in the blue-white light of the snowflake. It disappeared in the next moment, leaving a chill in the air. 

“That was unexpected,” Kalina said nonchalantly, taking a loud sip of juice. Jaskier looked up at the tall folks surrounding him. “Oooh juice. Can I have some juice?” the miniature bard. Lambert snorted a laugh and scooped the bard up to give him the best approximation of a hug the lanky younger witcher could manage due to certain magic-based stature complications.

“Good to have you back bardling!” he cheered, careful not to toss the bard into the air as he passed him to Geralt. Geralt nuzzled the bard, sating an instinct pressed upon him by the internal wolf. If Jaskier was surprised, he didn’t remark upon it. He just nuzzled back, using most of his body for said nuzzle. Philippe slowly regained color and mumbled something about a fight with a squirrel he had been meaning to straighten out and zoomed out the open window. 

Kalina slipped out of the room and returned with Yennefer’s gifts of a tiny wardrobe and tiny lute. “I went back for them late last night and rustled up all the stuff left in the inn. Witcher stuff was left in the hall closet. Most of it looked poisonous or pointy, so I didn’t want to leave it out by the trees.” 

Jaskier in turn let out a gasp delight and made grabby hands in the half siren’s direction. Frowning and more than a bit of (somewhat unreasonably, he knew logically) hesitation, Geralt gingerly deposited the bard in Kalina’s slim and more than slightly calloused palms. The tiny musician hugged a loose curl of her hair and began rambling thanks for the restoration of his livelihood (the mini lute) and his reason for living, or living fabulously anyway (the change of clothes) before remarking on her lovely scales and a certain ‘warrior prophet gracefulness’ she apparently exuded. 

“Much better than when you told Tea and Vea they had necks like a goose,” Geralt teased, if only for the adorable blushing and indignant squawking he was treated to in response. Remembering his good manners, the bard also greeted his ‘divine savior, the personification of mercy and vitality’. 

Moraei chuckled goodnaturedly and returned the bow, offering to go find a suitable thimble for the bard while he ‘thanked her by covering up sooner rather than later’. Jaskier took his time, seemingly unbothered by his nudity as he laid out several glittery or brilliantly colored outfits on the low table’s time-polished wooden surface, demanding his audience offer opinions on what he should wear next.

Lambert violently championed the emerald and silver set, while Kalina threatened to screech him to deafness if he did not concede that the red and gold set was fair superior. Their threats became more and more violent, though still oddly playful, with Moraei refusing to demean herself with participation, instead muttering about how damnably difficult it was to pour juice into a thimble without spilling everywhere. 

Jaskier waved to Geralt until the white-haired witcher obliged and leaned down. With a wink, Jaskier asked again which outfit Geralt preferred. His inner wolf howled the obvious answer, loud enough to threaten Geralt with a headache. It also seemed determined to remind Geralt of his promise to be more honest in his communications with their mat- FRIEND! FRIEND! He said FRIEND and there was absolutely no proof to the contrary! None! Shut up!

“I’ve always thought you looked best in blue. Y’know, because of your eyes…” Geralt mumbled, averting his gaze. He didn’t miss the sunny smile the bard offered in response, or that Jaskier immediately tugged on small clothes, a chemise, and the sky blue watered silk trousers and doublet that the witcher had indicated. 

Why that felt like validation, Geralt couldn’t really say. Maybe he’d examine it later if he was feeling emotionally ambitious. Which meant probably not. Jaskier accepted his thimble of mulberry juice and some bits of nectar on crackers from the somewhat cranky tree guardian, with a valiant offer to sing of Moreai’s praises at the next inn he was full-sized in.

“Rather you didn’t halfling, I don’t like people and the less who know about me the better. Kalina’s the people person of us.” Moreai got a wicked grin and leaned to whisper to the bard, “But perhaps a love song for us tonight. Do you know, ‘Evermore on the Moon’? Makes her all blushy and silly.” 

Jaskier heartily agreed and settled down to tune the lute, ignoring the shouts and playful snarls of Kalina and Lambert challenging each other to a spar. “Not by my trees!” Moreai snarled, eyes glowing violet. Geralt cuffed Lambert on the head for good measure. “You got to kill mages and blow shit up already this week. No damage to the trees.”

Both chastened almost-fighters very maturely stuck out their tongues and blew raspberries at their respective lecturers before deciding to arm wrestle instead. That Geralt would allow, it was simply unrealistic to expect Lambert to choose nonviolence. Vesemir and Eskel instead encouraged small regular bouts of smaller acts of violence, like controlled explosions to let out tension that otherwise resulted in the youngest Wof witcher going supernova. 

Geralt settled into the chair he’d occupied for most of the night to add his most recent observations about strangeness surrounding Jaskier to his list before meditating. They’d probably leave tomorrow, and they’d have to move quickly to make up for lost time. Geralt would use a small fire tonight and his medallion to check whereabouts Eskel was, see if they could intercept him as they made their way up to Kaer Morhen. 

With luck Yennefer and Ciri would be making their own, admittedly shorter, way to keep. Geralt’s peace of mind, and yes perhaps also his inner wolf, would genuinely appreciate strong walls, no outsiders, and the joy of all his family in one place for a change. Eskel and Vesemir were also the best read and most informed of the Wolf Witchers, meaning they might be able to shed more light on Jaskier’s status as both mini bard and ‘mostly’ human. 

As he drifted into meditation, he absently noted Jaskier shuffling closer and his warm up scales switching to something more along the lines of a lullabye. Moreai was definitely judging them, he could feel it even behind his closed eyes, but the soft familiar comfort of Jaskier and his voice superseded all that. The witcher and his wolf, for the first time in days, knew peace.


End file.
